


Quasi Presto

by Gallop_Free



Category: The Grisha Trilogy - Leigh Bardugo, The Language of Thorns - Leigh Bardugo
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Orchestra, Betrayal, Comedy, Drama, Eventual Romance, F/M, Operas, Romance, Singing, Slow Burn, Violins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-11-29
Packaged: 2020-07-27 22:49:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 46,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20053813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gallop_Free/pseuds/Gallop_Free
Summary: Alina Starkova, 26, considers herself not much of a soprano after a brief brush with fame a long time ago. Fate has other plans when famed soprano Zoya Alexeyevna Nazyalenskaya's role of Cio-Cio san in Madama Butterfly is given to her.The role offers her a new path that she never knew existed, into a foray of Verdi, Bellini, and Donizetti, and she realizes what surviving this world entails when she is swept into court cases, betrayal, and careful emotions.There is a girl called Alina Starkova, and she does not want anything but her peace. Wants can be a strange thing. The girl called Alinechka is hardly ever present, hidden behind a mask called Miss Starkova.There is a man called Aleksandr Morozov, who plays a borrowed Guadagnini with utmost control and clarity. There is a boy there somewhere called Sanya Baghrich who does not like playing the Mendelssohn concerto in E minor.~~~Tell me what you think in the comments section :) Anything is welcome from criticism to compliments :)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Tell me if I should continue :)

The back of the stage is a perfect storm. There are barely decent chorus members, singers in dressing gowns and wig caps, spilled rosin and wires on the floor. There were two weeks until the season opening.

Perhaps it was just me, but there was an air of fright for the precarious situation of the opera house that could not be masked. If this performance flopped, the opera house would essentially cease to exist for the likes of us and there would be a couple hundred more penniless and possibly homeless artists.

In the studio, I could see the splotches of paint on the walls and Alexei’s excited waving.

“Alina!” He mouthed.

The set we were working on was almost complete, bar the inconsistent patterns. I ran my hand over the silk screen, feeling a sense of pride even though my work was not the best. Alexei’s was, and he knew it. He was the artist and I was...I didn’t even know. Some opera singer turned painter. Not even an understudy. His future was in set designing and not simply just the making.

“You seem to be distracted today.” He observed. “Don’t tell me it’s Mal.”

“Alexei.” I rolled my eyes. “No. Just no.”

“Then what could it be?”

“The glorious prospect of losing my job.” I smiled and held up my hands in surrender. “Obviously you’re not going to be affected, so why ask?”

“They’ll sack me too.” He sighed. “There’s this fabulous money bringer called recitals that comes with reduced budget, by sacking the chorus and orchestra and stagehands. Of course.” He shrugged.

“But isn’t it unfair?” Another stagehand chimed in. Eva, somewhat pretty with striking green eyes but a pig-like nose that hardly made them matter. “Why is it singer oriented?”

“Well”, I started. “The orchestra can play gigs.”

“That’s not my point!” She threw her hands up in frustration.

I stayed silent. It was better not to argue with Eva. Instead, I focused on painting the silk screen, measuring the distances between each pattern repeat with a palm.

“I heard a rumor...” I started to Alexei. He immediately perked up.

“What rumor?”

“Finish my screen and I’ll tell you.” I smiled.

“Not fair!” He pouted, but he relented and set out working on the pattern. Alexei was the better artist out of the two of us, and perhaps out of the entire crew.

“Nazyalenskaya is not in the season opening.” I wiggled my eyebrows even though I knew he couldn’t see.

“But how are they going to put on Butterfly without her?” Alexei dropped his brush and stared at me.

“Probably they’ll call in another soprano.” I scoffed. “Hopefully less screamy.”

“Hopefully less like a banshee.” He smirked. Zoya...was difficult, and that was putting it lightly.

“Bring me my water!” I screeched under my breath. “Oh and make it body temperature. No, no, not like that, no you’re doing it all wrong! Oh no! I must have this that.” Soon, I was laughing albeit quietly, Alexei joining me in our mockery of Zoya.

A pang shot through me. This was what I wished I could have with Mal, but he hardly even looked at me. Last time I saw him he had Zoya over. I had no shelter from the thin walls and sounds coming from the room next to mine. It was awkward hearing the sounds of intimate activity but it was more painful the next morning looking at a triumphant Zoya and watching Mal’s eyes follow her. Maybe he thought of me as a sister, but I certainly did not think of him as a brother.

“Alina?” Alexei’s smile vanished. “Are you alright?”

I nodded, blinking to avoid the tears.

“Well, if it’s Mal, there are better options.” He teased. “You know, like...”

“Like what?”

“I actually don’t know. I’m going to feel bad for whoever I unleash you on.”

“Alexei!”

“What? It’s true.”

I shook my head, but I didn’t feel as if I wanted a good cry. “One day. I’ll get over him, one day.”

“Knowing you, that’s the day you die.” He rolled his eyes.

“Still, at least I have aspirations.” I muttered. “Unlike you.”

Someone knocked on the door. “Alina!”

Mal?

Alexei smirked. “Go on, go on.”

“This is not over.” I pouted.

As I exited the room, I found any resentment I had about him and Zoya disappear as he flashed a smile at me before offering me a cup of coffee. “Here you go, Lina.”

I held the cup and took a small sip. “How do you remember all this?”

“Remember what?”

“My coffee order.”

“Oh, that?” Mal shrugged. “It’s always been the two of us. What else do I have left to remember?”

I wanted to scream. Zoya? Her favorites? Days? But at least now, I could pretend he cared. It would probably change in a couple of days, or even tonight, but it was hard enough hearing about what exactly our futures looked like. Grim and uninviting.

“Thank you.” In that moment, I felt happy for the first time in a long time.

“This will not do!” I heard the voice of Beznikov, the lead tenor, Pinkierton. “The tickets will not sell and we have no good understudy for a premiere!” The understudy of Zoya, Nadia, flushed and lowered her head.

“She will have to do if we have no suitable alternative.” A voice cool and smooth as a mirror sounded. There was no mistaking who that was. Aleksandr Morozov.

If he was here, there would certainly be trouble.

“And that is the problem!” Beznikov yelled. “She is no suitable alternative!”

“I said, that I would solve this, Sergei Yegorovich.” Despite the din, his voice could be easily heard. I suppose it was the same principle as singing on a smaller scale, but it was still impressive that he isolated and utilized that one element to make himself prominent. A clever move indeed. And Morozov had always been a clever man.

“Alina would make a good Butterfly.” Somehow, Mal had slipped away and was now facing Morozov and the singers.

“What? The...what is she?” Benznikov laughed. I wanted to slip away and run, but it was difficult Morozov’s gray eyes and his scrutinizing gaze.

“I will take care of it.” Morozov replied, unflinching. “This is no conventional problem and looking for a conventional solution would only make things more difficult, Mr. Beznikov. He gestured to Nadia. “Call Baghra and Misha and tell her to come at seven. She will accompany miss...” He turned to me.

“Starkova.” I said quietly.

“Then it is settled.”

What had Mal gotten me into?

“Miss Starkova,” He turned to me. “Please prepare two arias if you wish, preferably in Italian, and do not fret. As you can see, we are in need of a soprano, and if you are who he says you are,” he pointed to Mal, standing next to Benznikov, looking at me with pleading eyes. “Then you have nothing to be worried about. And if you wish, you may leave now and prepare your audition. It will be in the concert hall”

Somehow, that last sentence only made my problem worse. Audition.

I headed to residence and the house seemed so much larger without Mikhail and Dubrov or Mal or even Zoya. It was much emptier.

With a pang, I realized that I had not touched a score or a keyboard in a long time. I had two hours to make this work.

I dug out an old and frayed score from my college days, titled Sempre Libera. At the time, it seemed so happy and carefree and I had not given a second thought before diving in.

Now? Humming the tune, I realized it might as well as have been a mask more than an expression of happiness. It was a sad mockery of how I perceived my college days. They were an attempt at a childish idea of freedom.

Should I sing it? I wanted to. Verdi wrote beautiful music. I knew I could sing it, but as I produced the syllables and notes, something felt wrong. My voice was there, the tone was right, so what else could be wrong?

I ran through the aria portion a few times before deciding that it was alright. He asked for two, and I flipped through more scores.

I found a score of Casta Diva and I laughed. Ingenuity at it’s finest. Still, I could not resist humming it. The music was some of the best but it was just...difficult? No, that was not the right word. It was more than difficult to pull off correctly.

Finally, at the bottom, I found a copy of Ah non credea.

My teacher in college had scolded me for the lack of sadness that I projected, and the ornaments I improvised on top of the suggested variations. I paid her no attention, but singing through the version I wrote, I could see why she would put it that way. That was not sadness. That was merely just forming notes. It was hardly singing, for singing was the production of notes with proper intent and I had no sense or proper intent.

I sang the aria without any ornament for the first time and I decided that perhaps I should go with this one after all. Six thirty. I ran all the way to the bus stop and after getting off the bus I ran.

The opera house was so empty without the cast and crew and audience to fill the empty spaces. I hurried up the stairs to the main concert hall and at the piano sat Baghra. A face we all knew, and not a welcome one. Her cane was not there, thank goodness, but her scowl was.

“Girl, if you want to do well, you should be earlier.”

I mumbled some apologies and handed her the music.

She grumbled something and sized me up. “If what you just did was your voice, then the boy is stupid. And deaf” It took me a moment to realize the boy in question was Morozov. “One, two, three – starting from the sempre libera portion.”

I sang to the best of abilities, although I could feel my chest tightening up from anxiety.

“No.” She shook her head. “Not like that. You are much too tight. Everywhere. Is this what they teach in college?”

I bit my lip to refrain from giving a scalding retort.

“Well, girl, you better get started.” She tossed aside sempre libera with a grunt. “Ah non credea. Go. I am not accompanying you this time.”

“Ah non credea mirarti...” I felt the pressure cease and suddenly it felt like flying. It felt right. It felt good. In the corner of my vision I could see a few people arriving and amongst them Morozov but I didn’t care and I did not stop at the end. I sang all the way to the e-flat of the cabaletta and the final b-flat. For a moment, I felt as if I possessed everything I should have. I felt worthy, somehow.

“Brava.” I heard a man’s voice.

Alexander Lanstov? As in, the benefactor?

“Thank you.” I curtsied.

“Will you sing for us the other aria?” The blonde woman next to him asked.

“Of course.” Even if I didn’t want to, I had to, for them.

Baghra rolled her eyes and muttered something about bad taste, but she looked at me with less contempt than she had before.

And she started at the aria section.

“Ah for’sei lui...” The cadenzas seemed much easier, somehow, and even sempre libera went alright. I still felt the tightness, but I managed. It was not too bad, I hoped.

I was met with silence, and then frenzied clapping from both Lanstovs.

“Brava.” Yekaterina Lanstov smiled, although it did not reach her eyes. She did not care, I realized.

“And as I have told you, Miss Starkova is a brilliant soprano and will bring in tickets more than Miss Nazyalenskaya ever could...” Morozov’s voice echoed in the hall as he lead both of them out of the doors and I beamed at Baghra, although she was less than pleased.

“I am stuck with you.” She muttered. “And I am already sick of you. Misha, out.” The boy obliged, scampering out of the room. “They are pleased, but what do they know of music?” She sighed, and I was left with a chill that shook me down to the bones.

“Have you studied Concone and Panofka?” She asked. I nodded. “Good. At least you are not as useless as some other sopranos.”

I wonder who she meant.

“Panofka 1. Sing that.” I wanted to protest and tell her how many more difficult pieces I could sing, but I did not feel like facing this woman.

Being called useless allowed me to at least scowl, albeit not in Baghra’s direction. God forbid I set her off more than I had already.


	2. Chapter 2

I was given a dressing room, something that had never happened before.

A childish part of me flicked the mirror lights on and off and messed with the powders until I heard frantic knocking.

“Who is it?” I asked, and a tall redhead rushed in, a heavy silk kimono in her hands. She

“Saints, you are not Nazyalenskya.” She breathed.

“Of course not.” I scowled. “Do I look like her?”

“No.” The redhead scrutinized me. “But what am I supposed to do with this?” She gestured at me. “Stand up.”

“But who are you? And why exactly are you saying all these things to me.”

“Oh.” She smiled sheepishly. “My name is Evgenia, or Genya.”

“I’m Ravkan.”

“Don’t call me Sergeyevna Safina like Auclair and I’ll be very nice to you.” She winked. “Some people can’t get seem to it right. Now, sit down. I will be your makeup artist and costume assistant, darling.”

I sat down grudgingly. Didn’t she just tell me to get up?

“Not bad, not too bad, better...” She muttered to herself. “You won’t be in costume today. It’s too big. Sorry about the alteration pace.” She apologized.

“It’s fine.” I reassured her. “It’s not like I’ll keep this role long enough.” I muttered under my breath.

“You will.” Genya smiled. “I don’t think Nazyalenskaya will miss the chance to sing for a more prestigious house.”

“Oh.” I said, because there was nothing else for me to say. “Is she coming back?”

“I hope not.” Genya giggled. “Because you’re way easier to work with and I don’t want to deal with getting her water.” We burst out laughing. “Now I have to get you ready, and stay still.”

I watched her hands and a selection of brushes make their way across my face and I grimaced a little as I saw the shadows and highlights. “Are those neccessary?”

“When you’re starring and under some bright lights,” She smirked, “You don’t want your face to look like a pie.”

Within a few seconds the shadows were blurred and the highlights softened. I felt a little disappointed that I looked very much like my usual self. Genya must have seen my disappointment.

“You’ll look like a clown if I do the makeup. I think the wig needs to be altered too. Having a tiny singer in place of Nazyakenskaya is hell.” She laughed. “But at least making it smaller is easier than making it larger.”

I nodded. Making a set smaller was also usually easier.

“But anyways, good luck.” She beamed. “You look amazing.”

“Thanks.” Maybe I could get used to it. The girl in the mirror looked like me, just a little brighter, a little more confident and poised.

I could use some of that and I began to leave.

“Head held high.” I turned around and Genya winked at me.

When I got to the stage, Morozov pulled me to the side. “We’ll start from Act 1, and you can watch for a bit.” He smiled faintly. “Just enjoy yourself for a bit. How much of the role do you know?”

The role of Butterfly was one of the first lead roles I had learnt in college, but precisely that made me wonder how much I could remember. It had been at least two or three years, and although I could probably recite all the music, I don’t think I could do the best job of it. “I think I’m most familiar with the first two acts and the finale, but I will work on it.” I promised.

“I’m glad to hear that.” Morozov walked away to take his place at the podium. With a single flourish he brought the orchestra to the familiar notes and chords that I had listened to for a thousand times. There was a type of excitement at watching the scene come to life and picking apart little melodies from each section, listening to the reassurance of the deeper notes.

I watched Beznikov enter from behind a silk screen – Alexei’s work, and with his usual arrogance he sang his part, loud and clear and piercing. So there was plenty of reason for his arrogance – he was a good tenor, after all. A tenor I did not recognize sang the part of Goro with surety and a different type of confidence, different from the arrogance of Beznikov.

At the right moment, I enter from the side and sing my first notes. They are wobbly and a little soft, but I can hear my voice reverberating. I find my ribs and lungs again and the next phrase comes out, almost perfect, the vibrato even and unlike a wobble. I mentally hum with the orchestra until I hear the phrase that marks my next entrance, and the next part comes out subconsciously without my intervention, even the high notes, which are clear and rounded and unlike anything I’ve ever done. Morozov’s conducting is certainly good, and I don’t think I’ve ever found orchestras to be so responsive, and caring of breath and phrasing not only for the instrumentalists but also the singers and the chorus.

At the end Morozov gestures for the orchestra to stop and I suddenly feel aware of all the stares and the silence.

Then the chorus disperses and voices fill the hall again. I run towards the doors before I realize I don’t belong to the studios anymore and I turn around to see Morozov, his face impassive as usual, but I felt a blush creeping up my cheeks. I had not noticed before, but the man was very good looking, and a particularly tough run through had thrown his hair into disarray, spilling like ink across pale skin and sharply cut cheekbones.

“Well done.” He gives a lilting smile.

“Thank you, Aleksandr Morozov.” His name was always listed without a patronymic, and it would have been impolite to ask why.

“Aleksandr will do.” He said. “Else I am calling you Alina Starkova.”

“Likewise, Alina will do.” I returned the smile with a little more confidence. “And you conduct well.”

I wanted to slap myself. What else would give him the position of principal conductor?

“Likewise, thank you. But I think Baghra would disagree.”

“Baghra? What does she have to do with you?”

“She was my teacher.” He said in a way that betrayed nothing, but I caught a hint of fear in his eyes. “She has taught most of the singers here.”

“Really?” I asked.

“Yes, really.” He seemed oddly bemused. “She is a very good teacher, after all.”

I was not inclined to agree.

Past lessons this week with Baghra involved lots of cursing and feeling useless in general. And Baghra’s sneering.

“She does seem to hate most of us though.” He must have seen my expression. I blushed a little. Only a little, I hoped.

“I am inclined to agree with you.” I said carefully. “But she is a difficult woman to work with.”

“You are too polite.” He shook his head. “Difficult is not how I’d describe having cold water dumped over me if I messed up.” He chuckled. “And she managed to miss the violin every time.”

I shook my head. It was not a good idea to speak ill of someone who had too much power.

“I should go.” I said. “Rehearsals are only for act one?”

“Yes.” He nodded. “At least for now. You should get your lunch early today.” Singing on a full stomach was not good.

“Alright.”

I hoped that it was not too sudden and I walked back to my dressing room. Genya was still there, lounging and scrolling through her phone.

“Alina!” She smiled. “How was the rehearsal? How are you feeling?”

“A little shaken?” I shrugged. “It’s kind of difficult in front of singers I’ve admired in these.” I pointed at my attire.

“I heard most of it.” I blushed. “It was great! I’m sure you’d make a great Butterfly.” She dropped her voice. “But I know enough about opera. You’d make a great Tosca too.”

“Tosca?” I was alarmed. “No, no, and no.”

“Have some faith, girl.” She drawled out. “And I’m starving. Lunch?”

I nodded.

“Then where? I know a great bistro here.” Genya quickly tapped a few characters into her phone. “Aha!” She beamed. “You’re coming with me! Don’t worry, the meal’s on me.”

“Sure?” I didn’t resist as she dragged me out of the opera house. The weather today was actually fairly nice and a light breeze rustled my hair. No scarf needed, and it wasn’t excessively dry either.

“Do you want me to order for you?” Genya asked as we were seated. “I’ve tried pretty much everything here.”

“No thanks.” I groaned as I thought of the time Mal ordered pickled herring, and as his guest, I had to finish every bite without complaint, and thank him for the meal. He revealed some time later that he did that on purpose. I retaliated by setting Ruby and some of his admirers on him – on purpose.

“Aw, but can I offer recommendations?” Genya pouted.

I nodded silently, staring at the foreign names. “What exactly is foie gras?”

“Fat goose liver.” Genya smirked. I made a disgusted noise. “It’s good, but not ethical.” She turned her head this way and that. I noticed the large diamond earrings on both sides. Did a makeup artist make so much money? Or was she just a good planner?

“And what is quiche?” I asked again.

“A pie. It’s good, really. Order it.” She pointed at the vegetable quiche. “That one,” she paused for effect, “is gorgeous.”

“It has cheese though.” I felt a sinking sensation. “I can’t eat diary. Not when I’m working. I think I’ll just take a salad.”

“Sure.” Genya looked disappointed. “Damn you singers, you miss out on too much.” I couldn’t help but laugh with her. Why was it so easy to laugh around Genya?

Genya placed our orders with much ease and I wondered how long it would take me to posses the same kind of easy communication and capability of resolving awkward conversation, but Genya was a master. Perhaps, spending more time with her, it would rub off a little.

Over the food, Genya gossiped about mostly names that I did not know, but I was grateful for not being required to say much more than yes and oh. There were a few names that I recognized – Lantsov, Morozov, but that was really it. She seemed well acquainted with most prominent individuals in Os Alta.

“Genya, just a question, how do you know all this?”

She scoffed. “Yeketerina Lantsova. The cow. Gossips more than I can ever gossip.” I had a hard time imagining that.

I didn’t think insulting an employer was wise, but she was completely unconcerned. With a toss of her hair, she launched into a tirade of Yekaterina’s routine and “quirks”, to put it nicely. I smiled and nodded and ate my salad until she finished. At least that gave me less chance to embarass myself.

“What time is it?” I asked.

“Twelve.” She shrugged. “I know rehearsal times by heart darling, so don’t worry. You have until one thirty.” Suddenly, a mischevious glint arose. “How about...you tour my studio?”

I was not thrilled at the aspects of more potential mirrors, but I didn’t want to disappoint her. “Sure!” I mustered.

“Then what are we waiting for?” Somewhere along the gossip, I had finished the salad and the only remnants of its existence was the vinaigrette dressing.

Genya’s studio was located about fifteen minutes of walking from the bistro. We ran the entire way, giggling, breathless, and although we knew the passerby were staring at the odd combination and actions – Genya was a full head taller than me, I realized, we didn’t care at all.

At the studio, Genya thrust several dresses in my direction and ordered me to try them on - apparently I was as flat as she once was, but looking at Genya with her rather curvaceous figure, it was a little hard to believe. And Genya, short? No, that did not sound right at all.

The first dress I tried on was frilly and blue and had huge padded shoulders. When I stepped out, both me and Genya bursted in giggles and mocked the way the ruffles mimicked a tail and Yekaterina’s taste in clothing.

“Can you believe she made me wear that for a year?” She choked out, snorting. “I looked like a weird blue monster.”

“A beautiful weird blue monster.” I gasped for air as she waved the ruffled tail and announced me as “Princess Grand Duchess random important girl Alina Starkova”, all while waving that dreadful thing around.

“I do think it’s time for act two.” She smiled sadly. “Later, alright?”

“Later.” I could get used to the mirrors.

She helped me out of the dress and we ran all the way back to opera house, breathing a small sigh of relief at the site of the castle-turned opera house with its golden domes and tall doors.

The little bit of relief was all gone as I saw Baghra sitting in the audience, scowling at the direction of the stage.

Not good news.

The little bit of good news was that Aleksandr announced that the other acts would be sung out of costume, sparing me the awkwardness of being the only singer without a kimono or the hairstyle or the makeup. In the company box, I could see Genya’s red hair as she scanned the stage.

“We will be starting with ‘un bel di’.” Aleksandr announces. Since when was he Aleksandr and not Morozov?

I make my way onto the stage and kneel as I was instructed by Baghra. I nod at Aleksandr and we begin, together, on the opening g-flat.

This was one of my better arias. I had performed it for two recitals during college and it was requested countless other times for the sheer beauty.

Diaphragm down, ribs out, I chanted to myself as I produced each note, taking an extra deep breath for the final b-flat. It needs to spin, I heard Baghra say, and I let myself go, feeling adrenaline and power coursing through me. The note comes out darker and more robust than I had expected, and I force myself to hold it steady until the orchestra strikes the final chord.

No disgust from Baghra? All is good, I suppose.

The next scenes all go well, and I feel more of the dark tone coming to me, and much more naturally. By the end of the second act, I feel energized instead of tired, and somehow, I feel truly deserving of the title of prima donna.

Trouble comes in the third act. A black mane and tailored blue coat enters through the right door, and I surpress a groan.

Nazyalenskaya.

No, I cannot let her distract me, not when tu, tu piccolo iddio is on the line. It is hard to hold steady with her icy eyes fixating themselves on me in a mocking fashion, almost as if she were to be commenting on what I was doing badly. Nadia and Marie join her in the seats and I see them giggle.

Against my better judgment, I sing the finale loudly, and much more forcibly. The strange thing was that it felt natural, almost as if I was meant to do it. The last phrases, ending on the lower middle, are still as strong as the top notes of my range, and I see a hint of surprise in her eyes, and more satisfying, jealousy. I may not be a diva, but I suppose, I could sing nearly as well as one.


	3. Chapter 3

Two hours until the performance. Even Genya is unusually silent today, brushing on layers and layers of white paint and lining my eyes with red.

I heard Baghra’s parting words in my head.

_Stop screaming, you’ll choke on your spit. _

_Use your diaphragm, girl, or do you need me to remove it to actually see how important it is?_

_Look less like a dead trout, girl. Actually, look less dead. Will you be human and sleep?_

I wish they were as easy to follow as they sounded, but according to her? No.

Nothing was getting much better. It seemed that I had hit a limit to development and it was much harder to accept than to fight it.

The girl in the mirror was not me. She had a pale face, thin, arched brows, huge eyes, and blood-red lips. Her hair was styled in a delicate shimada, black and shiny as a crow’s feather.

“You look positively gorgeous.” Genya beamed, but even her cheerful demeanor had a hint of forcefulness. We all understood. If this was no success or if the press did not laud us enough, we were truly doomed to both an irritable Aleksandr and impeding poverty.

“Don’t you always?” I grumbled. “Get out of the way because I can’t feel pretty with you behind me.”

Genya did not comment as she draped the juban over me, her trained fingers fastening each ribbon with utmost precision. Then she pulled the kimono, heavy with silk and embroidery, over that. At the back she fastened the collar with a pin and she adjusted the sleeves of the both the inner and outer garments.

Carefully, she pinched a length of the left and tucked the right, and then folded the left neatly atop. A length of silk ribbon snaked its way around my waist and she pulled at the excess, looking content.

“Where is the obi?” she muttered to herself. “They must have forgotten to deliver it.” She apologized. “I will retrieve it now.”

It was difficult to sit in the ensemble. The fabric was stiff and not comfortable to move around in, and I was grateful for the cold that permeated the opera house.

Genya returned with a large box that she struggled to carry. I stood up to assist her but she waved me off with the best of her ability.

We lifted the lid together. Genya drew a sharp breath as she saw the contents. A pure black obi embroidered with silver and red cranes, and at the inner fold of one end, a sun in eclipse. Aleksandr’s symbol.

I felt a pang of resentment and jealously. Was this meant for Nazyalenskaya or was it made for me? A thousand questions ran in my head, but I forced myself to calm down and instead stand still, arms held high despite the strain of holding up the wide sleeves, while Genya’s pale, deft fingers worked their way through ribbon and string. Against the black obi, her fingers were white petals, flitting this way and that, appearing so light, but from what I had seen, it could not have been easy to keep the obi parallel to the belt.

“Alina.” She looked troubled.

“What is it?”

“Just, beware.” She closed her eyes. “Beware of powerful men.”

“Genya?” That did not sound like her at all. “Why?”

“I said beware, and I suggest you do so.” She shook her head. I wanted to ask, but I could guess.

I had seen the stares, heard the whispers, and Alexander Lanstov’s unusual gaze lingering on Genya, Yekaterina’s displeasure, her status as Yekaterina’s personal stylist...it was not hard to add up the pieces, but a part of me did not want to believe. It would have hurt her to ask, so instead I hugged her to the best of my ability and waited in the wings.

Aleksandr’s conducting was almost dancelike, his arms moving with a certain grace that many other conductors lacked. For a second, I thought his eyes were fixated on me, but when I looked closely, his eyes were trained on his score, his hair already looking a little out of place.

Sergei’s singing sounded even more polished, his high notes full of depth, his hands moving with the words, telling another story on their own.

When it was my turn, I let my voice join his, entwining, a mysterious new world, filled with brilliant lights and brilliant tones and color. I was no longer the little ghost who hid in the closet and eavesdropped on Ana Kuya, who took my only pleasures in Mal’s reassurance that I was neither ugly nor strange.

At the thought of Mal, I scanned the crowd. I could not see him, and it pained me to realize that he was probably watching Zoya at the very moment. I felt my voice falter, and in my panic, I found Aleksandr’s eyes. He was still impassive and unrelenting, but briefly, I caught a smile and nod.

My voice did not falter anymore. It came out with surprising surety, depth of tone, and the high notes spun in the air. Subconciously, I felt the silence of the orchestra, the enthusiasm of the audience, but all I could think of was maintaining the note, so pristine and perfect despite what Baghra had said of me.

I felt energized and not tired. The roar of the audience masked the sounds of the orchestra. The rest of the opera went much better than I would have ever expected. Even ‘tu, tu, piccolo iddio’ went well, as I threw myself into the role, into her notes, into her sorrow.

I found myself again.

As the orchestra struck the final notes, I watched the chorus step out, then Goro and Suzuki, and then Sergei, his chest puffed out, greeting the audience with a flashy bow and drinking up the resulting cheers. I step out gingerly, more because of the sandals than stage fright, but the applause was thunderous. Roses rained from the audience as soon as I stepped out, and I heard shouts for an encore.

Without thinking, I started singing Tatiana’s letter scene from Yevgeni Onegin. The orchestra responded soon enough, and I heard shouts of brava and bravissima. It was strange to sing the scene in foreign dress and Ravkan tongue but Aleksandr’s conducting made it much easier. At the end, the audience was hysterical, and to me, it felt unreal somehow, as if it were not me standing upon the stage of the Ravkan opera, lifting my hands delicately and blowing kisses at rapturous applause.

Exiting the stage, Genya led me back, weak in the knees from the excitement, and changed me out of the makeup, wig, and costume. A set of boxes and flowers sat upon my dressing room table, the fragrance a welcoming distraction from the smells of powders and creams.

The largest box held a lovely black and gold gown, no doubt from Aleksandr as well, judging from the gold charm of the eclipse. There was no mistaking in who this gown was for – with the flat cut and short length, who else but me could have worn it? I was easily one of the smallest singers and I hardly met anyone who was shorter than me, and I was also a stick, remnants of the life in the orphanage.

The gown reminded me of the kaftan, with delicate embroidery and buttons and wide sleeves, but made of fluttering tulle and thin gold thread. I climbed into the gown as Genya fastened the buttons and gasped. “It is perfect!” She clapped her hands. “I knew you would look good in this.”

I shoved down the questions at her statement and instead checked the other boxes. There I found a small crown, reminiscent of a kokoshnik, lain flat against my head, and gold earrings. Beneath the decor I found a note, written in black ink, signed Aleksandr Morozov.

Genya dragged me away before I could decipher the contents and whisked me off to the ballroom of the Ravkan Opera house. I was now grateful for the gown because it seemed most of the attendees were dressed similarly - overdressed. But I could not deny that it was beautiful, like a million flowers blooming across the golden dance floor. A pang of nostalgia hit me, and I wished for the cupboard, with Mal by my side, always willing to comfort me no matter what I had left to say about myself. She handed me a cup of champagne that I sipped readily, willing for something to do other than gawking and being gawked at.

“Alina.”

I turned around, but Genya had slipped away, and when I did not know. I fidgeted with the golden charm.

“Do you think you can manage another performance?” He asked, his eyes serious.

“I think at this point I have no reason to refuse.” I nod at the partygoers.

“You misunderstand my offer.” He says, shaking his head. “I would not think of having you perform now. I may not be a singer, but I have made my career working with many.”

“Then what is it you are asking?”

“I would like to offer you another role.” He pulled me to the edge of the room, a glass of wine in his hand. I stared, fascinated, at how thin and graceful his fingers were.

He definitely caught me staring, a smirk at his lips. “I am a violinist too.”

I wanted to slap myself. Aside from being a conductor, he was also a prominent violinist in his early career, a world class soloist. He had fingers to match, I supposed.

“You have not answered my question though.” He said, cutting me out of my thoughts. “Will you take my offer and sing Il trovatore?”

“I hope you aren’t in need of an Azucena,” I smiled, “Because that’ll be the end of my career.”

He laughed. “Don’t make this so difficult.”

“I’m not trying, I swear.”

“I’m offering you a run as Leonora.”

“What about Nazyalenskaya or the Lantsovs?”

“The former this matters not and the latter can be convinced.” At the mention of the Lantsovs, a shadow crossed his face. “This is about you.”

“What if I say I want a run as Norma?” I joked.

“It can be done.” His mouth quirked up into a half smile. “You would make a great Norma.”

I felt my heart thump irregularly, and I did the only thing that seemed to work for me always, no matter who it was I faced. I ran, despite the meters of fabric clinging to my legs and the dangerous length of the hem. Through the crowd, I saw a flash of auburn hair and I knew who that was.

“Genya!” I called out, but she only responded stiffly. Next to her was a tall, regal woman, strikingly beautiful. But as I got closer, something seemed off. Her hair was too yellow and too bright, her face far too smooth, the lines of her face too defined to be real. Next to her was Alexander Lantsov. This woman must be Yekaterina Lantsova, then.

“And here is our leading Butterfly.” Genya spoke softly and gently. “Alina Starkova. Very promising.” The woman who spoke did not seem like Genya at all, but rather someone else wearing Genya’s face.

“It is lovely to meet you.” Yekaterina’s pretty eyes looked dull and bored, and it seemed, she hardly cared. Alexander Lantsov was much more excited, and with a large smile he shook my hand.

“Miss Starkova, we are fortunate to have you as Butterfly tonight.”

“Thank you, Mr Lantsov.” I nodded. “May I borrow Genya for a moment?”

“Of course you may.” Yekaterina’s voice turned sour.

Was it jealousy I detected in her tone?

As soon as we rushed away, outside, into the corridors of opera house, Genya started laughing.

“My god!” She rasped. “I’ve never seen you look so dead!”

I shared her laughter. “It’s difficult to try and pretend to be posh, and what the hell was that voice?”

“Psh. Yekaterina doesn’t like it when I take any attention.” She snorted. “Besides, I was trying to mock Nazyalenskaya. That’s how she tries to talk, but she didn’t even show up tonight.”

“I’ve had enough of parties, and I don’t want to see Zoya.” I shuddered.

“Let’s go somewhere else.” Genya suggested. “Besides, I could agree with needing some fresh air.”

Maybe not the fresh air. In a few moments we plopped ourselves down on the stage, the hall devoid of any other life.

“How do you like your life as the new prima donna?” She asked lazily, leaning on a curtain.

“Genya!” I shook my head. “I am hardly a prima donna.”

“But you will be.” She said. “Have you seen the reviews?”

“It’s barely been two hours.”

“Just look. Why do you have to be so stubborn.” She flicked through her phone and read loudly, like an announcer. “The real star of the opening night was Ravkan soprano Alina Starkova as Butterfly. She sang with true passion and excellent technique, incredibly accomplished for one so young, and her final aria caused thunderous applause that shook the opera house to its core.” She shook her head. “How are you so oblivious?”

“I just am.” I grinned cheekily.

“Just wait.” She smiled sadly. “You’ll be the prima donna of this world soon.”

“Do you believe that?”

“Yes.” Genya said. “Truly.” She looked troubled. “But will I still be your friend after everyone flocks to you when you shine?”

“Why would you even think such a thing?”

“It happens.” She smiled sadly. “But I am a good judge of character.” Her mouth broke into a dazzling grin. “You know what I’m thinking?”

“What is it?” From the smirk, I could not decided whether to be afraid or excited.

“Pastries.” In an instant she was on her feet. “I know a place. We can get them for free.”

“Why?”

“The owner’s daughter has spots. I took care of them.” She flipped her hair. “I am fabulous, am I not.”

“You’re horrible.”

“If that is your synonym for fabulous, thank you. Unless you’re on a diet, but the only one you should be on is a three thousand calorie diet for some fattening.”

“I have no wish to be livestock.”

“You don’t have much choice, do you?”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I gave everyone Russian formatted names, that is, a first name, occasional diminutive, patronymic (I tried), and gendered last name. 
> 
> I also tried weaving some of the canon in this story, but it's difficult especially since I have to consider character relationships and positions of power, so it's like Shadow on Bone on a smaller scale. There will be out of character moments, and please tell me what you think!

If my life as a diva, coddled by Genya, respected, loved, wanted, was like a dream, then the reality of my situation was a bucket of cold water, merciless and unforgiving.

Zoya had somehow gotten in. Instead of greeting me, she simply snorted in disgust and turned her head away from me. I was still hungry from walking home and I checked the fridge, avoiding Zoya’s gaze. It was empty, save for a few cartons of yogurt. I checked the other compartment, but sure enough, I did not misplace anything. Either Mal ate all of the spinach and the bread and drank all the tea, which he wouldn’t because he hated tea and spinch, or Zoya had eaten it. From the green stains on the dirty plates, it was the latter.

I felt fury taking over me, and I marched back into the room, plate in hand, and I set it down with a loud clang.

“What?” She sounded annoyed. “Spinach? Bread? You can buy more.”

“You know perfectly well it isn’t about that.” I muttered. “I’ve had enough of you coming to my house and taking my things and making my life miserable. And you know what? I’ve had enough of you being a bitch about everything. I live here. You don’t. Deal with it.” Words tumbled out of my mouth as I remembered every snide comment the past week and Zoya bossing me around in my own home, while Mal did nothing.

She looked shocked. I had not spoken that way to her previously. But soon the look of shock faded and a mask of arrogance crossed her features. “What are you? Some sad little soprano, clinging onto some fantasy of fame?” She hissed. “Just go take a look in the mirror.”

“What I look like is none of your business.” I hissed back. “If you will, stop being an absolute ass and get a life or your own home. Knowing you, it’s probably both.” I marched back to my room, still angry, but a sense of pride welled up.

It was the first time that I’d stood up to her, or anyone who made my life purposefully miserable. Some of Mal’s other dalliances, knowing my past, had attempted similar things to drive me out. In those days, I simply bore it until Mal tired of them.

Usually that was a month, tops, but Zoya had been here for a month already, and Mal was clearly not bored with her.

A knock came at my door. “Who is it?” I snapped, even though I knew exactly what was going on.

“It’s me.” Mal said, sounding weary. “Are you decent?”

“You can guess from the amount of commotion.”

“I’m sorry, Lina, Zoya was pretty nasty today.” He said, closing the door behind him.

“Oh? Today?” I couldn’t help it. “Listen. I’ve had enough of your girlfriends pushing me around like I am nothing. I’ve had enough of Dubrov and Mikhail being drunk on kvas and I’ve had enough of all of this.” I stood up, staring Mal down. It was difficult because he was the one who grew a lot more.

“Alina? Are you alright?”

“You know bloody well this isn’t about be being alright or not?” Could he not see? How blind was he? “It isn’t just about Zoya. This isn’t even a one time thing. I’m done.”

“You are taking to fame well.” He shook his head.

“Oh? So I should just bear it? How about I bring someone home who never lets you have a little peace in your own home? So I shouldn’t stand up for myself?”

I left Mal gaping as I rushed out of my room, out of the door, and I kept focused on the front to avoid what I knew was a gloating smile from Zoya.

Standing on the slippery street, I realized that I had no where else to go. Did I overreact? But I was not going to go back and see Zoya’s face or hear her comments about me again. I could do better.

I was worth more than that, or so I hoped.

At least I still had Genya.

She had given me her number some time ago, and this would be the first time I dialed it. I felt a sense of shame. Was this real friendship, or would she see me as using her?

There was no alternative though. The vibration was comforting as I held the phone to my ear.

“Darling,” Genya drawled out. “Can’t sleep?”

“I’m sorry.” I choked, and then I began to cry. “Genya, I really am, but can I crash at yours?”

“Sure.” She sounded much more awake. I could hear a rusting of covers and the creaking of a door. “Where are you right now? Hang on and I’ll get you. It’s raining. Get to a bus stop and send me your location. Don’t catch a cold.”

“Thank you.” I sobbed into the phone. “I’ll return the favor if you need it.”

“Isn’t this what friends are for?” I could almost see her smile. “At least now I have an excuse to be up. Where are you right now?”

“Uh, Sankt Ilya Avenue.” I said. “Near the bus stop.”

“Five minutes, dosvidaniya.”

In much less than that, a silver car pulled up. The window rolled down to reveal Genya’s face, still unblemished and perfect as it was in the day.

“Thank you.” I could feel the tears welling up again. “I’m really sorry for disturbing you.”

“I could use a little adventure.” She said. “Besides, I’m terribly alone most of the time.”

The pieces clicked. I found Genya’s friendliness almost unreal. A pretty girl like her should not have the same kind of troubles as a plain thing like me when it came to socializing, but I heard the whispers and Genya’s troubled tones.

For all her beauty, we weren’t so different after all.

“Me too.” I agreed.

Genya’s house was small and cozy, well lit with pale walls and a red roof inlaid with shimmering gold carvings. The door was plain wood, but from the smoothness and heaviness, it must have been expensive.

A thousand questions ran in my head. How could she afford all of this, and the car? We were all young people, and money was usually tight.

“I charge plenty for my services.” Genya winked, as if she could read my mind. “And besides, I am not that young. How old are you, Alina?”

“Twenty six. You?”

“I have eight years on you.” She smiled sweetly. “Believe me, eight years will make a huge difference.”

“But you look younger than I do!”

“It’s called skincare. I’m a beautician, after all.” Genya sprawled across the couch. “And I tend not to worry.”

“That’s not something I can do.” I grumbled.

“You can always try.” With that, she glided from the room. “Would you like some tea? And a change of clothes?”

After the ordeal, nothing sounded better. “Wouldn’t it be too much trouble?”

“You’re never trouble, Alina.” She brought with her a few cookies. “Go take a bath. You can have the guest bedroom.”

The tea was scented with orange and cinnamon. Before drinking, I breathed in the mellow scent and Genya laughed.

“I never thought my teas were worthy of such praise.” She laughed. “I’ve had someone drink them and remark upon the proportions of ingredients.” Two spots of color appeared on her cheeks. There was a funny little lilt to her voice as well, and I had a sense that it wasn’t just anyone who made such a remark. “Now, you did say you would return the favor, so all I’m asking is why in the hell are you not home and asleep and sobbing at this hour? Boyfriend drama? I have spare bat and mask if you want that.” She grinned wickedly.

“Not that.” I felt tears welling up again, and I swallowed them before continuing.

I told Genya the entire story about me and Mal, about growing up and liking him and never realizing until now that it was much more than just a crush. I told her about the endless stream of girlfriends that he brought home and Zoya. I told her about how I only took the job on the set because it would keep me close to him, and that I turned down a job at another opera house in two leading roles. All while this happened, she petted me on the back.

“You are in need of a good bath, and a good night’s sleep.” She said, finally. “If you need me to torture Nazyalenskaya, I could use the outlet. Now go take your bath and get your beauty sleep because you look dreadful.”

“No need to be rude.” But my spirits were lifted.

All she said was true. I did feel much better after the bath, and the next morning, I decided that I felt much better about the entire Mal fiasco.

I had two unread texts. Both from Mal, asking if I was alright. I could feel the anger ebb away at the sad puppy face he sent, and I texted him back that I was at Genya’s and perfectly fine.

I also told him that I was sorry for blowing up at him when it was Zoya who was setting me off, but how much I meant about that I did not know. Maybe I was still a little angry at him, but the fact that he cared took away most of that anger.

At the foot of my bed Genya had left a blue shirt and skirt. I put on the clothes, but the effect was almost comedic. They were simply too big. I braced myself as Genya got her first glimpse of me.

“You still look dreadful.” She shook her head. “Here, try this.” She returned with a gold belt. It did help a little, and she nodded as she looked me up and down. “I don’t think there’s anything today, but Aleksandr asked me if you wanted to discuss a contract with him?”

“Contract? Aleksandr? As in, Morozov?”

“Yes. Girl, you do need more sleep.” Genya sighed. “I could do something about those circles.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I like how I look.”

“I don’t like how you look.”

“Ouch.”

“What?”

“That hurts. A lot.”

“I’m just honest.” She shrugged. “But well, I can’t do anything except to goad Zoya to propose to Mal.”

I choked. “Please don’t.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. I’d feel bad for unleashing her on him no matter how weak willed he is. But now, should I tell Aleksandr that you’re negotiating over lunch or dinner?”

“Uh, lunch?”

“Alright. Here goes.” She sighed. “Can I confide in you about something?”

“What are you in need of? A fairy godmother?” I joked, but the somber tone in her voice stopped me.

“I intend on bringing a lawsuit against Alexander Lantsov.”

“What? Why?”

Instead of answering, she simply broke down, sobbing into my shoulder. I thought back to what she had said previously about powerful men, and I think, there would be no mistake in my conclusion.

“I think,” she said, her eyes still red. “You said lunch and Aleksandr has asked if you need picking up.”

I nodded, but then I scowled. “I’m not a kid.”

“We know that.” She laughed. “But from what I saw yesterday you definitely need picking up. I don’t plan on losing you to Os Alta.”

“I can manage myself, spasibo.” I stuck out my tongue at her.

“Of course you can. I’m just watching out for you.”

“Thanks.”

“No need to thank me. It’s what friends do, right?”

“To be honest, I don’t know.” I admitted.

“Me neither.” She shrugged. “But it’s what we do.”

“This is what we do.” I nodded.

“Oh, and check your phone for texts.” She said suddenly. “Aleksandr is picking you up.”

“Sure.” I found a text from an unknown number.

_Outside._

“This?”

Genya nodded.

Aleksandr waited outside a plain gray car, a score in his hands. He nodded a greeting before opening the car door. I sat down, and could not resist a little sigh of comfort. He watched, amused.

“Can I not appreciate the comfort?” I pouted.

He simply chuckled and started the car. “Then can I take you to lunch?”

“Sure.”

Soon I found myself thinking about Mal, and the time he nearly left and my relief at his return.

I was only twelve? Thirteen? Seeing him again from the window, I had ran down the stair and I slipped. My hand landed on a piece of sharp plastic, and it had tore a gash along my palm. The joy of seeing Mal had numbed the pain, and I rushed towards the door. When he saw me, he ran towards me and hugged me tight. I hid the hand so he wouldn’t be worried.

Ana Kuya had scolded me for not bandaging it earlier and getting blood on the carpet. I found that even her scolding became bearable. Perhaps I should be sad and in pain, but that day always brought a little joy. It had gotten me through many occasions where I would have otherwise given up.

“What are you smiling about?” Aleksandr’s mouth held a faint hint of a grin.

“Myself.” I could feel an embarrassed flush creeping up my cheeks. “I’m hilarious.”

“Why do you do that?”

“Do what?”

One of his hands touched mine. I felt a small jolt and allowed him to take it. “Rub your thumb, across your palm.” He brushed over the scar with his thumb.

His fingers were long and nimble, but not weak. Years of violin had certainly left their mark. I felt self conscious as I mentally compared my fingers to his – stubby, bony, and not at all strong. True, most instrumentalists had to take piano and I was no exception, especially since my musical skills in the first two years were inadequate, but that did not change the fact that I was not an instrumentalist and one look at my fingers could tell a lot.

“You know, having smaller hands won’t make a career impossible.” Was he capable of reading minds? “It’s technique that matters. I had small hands once too.”

Looking at him now, it was difficult to imagine him as anything other than the tall man with long, elegant fingers, but I found myself asking another question. “Then what was it like?”

“It’s called Baghra’s eighteenth level of hell.” He chuckled. “Playing arpeggios.”

“I can relate to that.” I thought back to lessons with Baghra and the endless slew of nasty comments that she always seemed to have ready to hurl at me.

“Baghra’s not so bad once you get used to her.” He finally said.

“The problem is that I won’t.”

He looked at me quizzically. “I forgot that you’ve only studied with her for a few weeks. I apologize.”

I did not need that reminder.

“It will get better, Alina.” He reassured me. “The road to being a soloist is difficult and Baghra may be demeaning, but she is very capable. I have seen what you can do and if no one else would trust you, consider that you have mine.”

I stayed silent. It was not wise to disappoint a powerful person. Aleksandr may not be able to make all the decisions, but he had enough power to sway them. If I did not shape up...

“The audience is already enamored of you.” He murmured. “There are only steps forward, and I will make sure of that.”

Aleksandr seemed unconcerned. Then again, he was probably used to getting a result he desired.

I don’t think I was.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a lot of fun writing this chapter, particularly Genya and Alina. Who doesn’t like some more friendship? It’s almost as if my focus is shifting from Darkling/Alina to friendshipping Genya and Alina but c’mon give me one person who doesn’t like Genya’s general amazingness (or horridness, up to reader discretion). I hope the allusions to the original work were noticeable enough, and please tell me if you can find them. 
> 
> Bonus round: I have a reference to another fairly well known YA fantasy novel set in Russia in this chapter.
> 
> ANNNDDDD I crossed 10,000 just a little celebration for my focus is hardly more than that of Roffe...

“Alexander Lantsov has requested your presence at a gathering.” Although the words should have been a blessing, the small shift in his jaw suggested that Aleksandr was aggravated at him, and not pleased at all to be asked it. 

“Why does it annoy you so much?”

“He has also requested that you sing some pop songs.” 

“Is he mad?” The words tumbled out of my mouth before I could register, and I clamped one hand over my mouth. 

Aleksandr looked slightly amused, but the smile disappeared at his next words. “He is a child. Hardly more than that.” There was a dark look in his eyes, almost dangerous, and I could feel a faint chill. “But if you will accept his offer,” he looked unhappy, “you will make him a very happy child.”

“I think accepting won’t do much harm.” I said carefully. 

“So we would wish.” He sighed. “Alina, what if I said, you are the greatest soprano I’ve heard?”

He was now looking at my eyes, and instead of looking away, I met his gaze and did not waver, even as my heart thumped and I could feel a dreaded blush creeping up my cheeks. “I wouldn’t know what to think.”

“I would.” He said softly. “And I know that for certain.”

“You are making a mistake.” I said, “I don’t even know if I can do this anymore.”

“Does this have anything to do with last night?” He asked.

“How do you know?”

“Genya was distressed. She asked me to excuse you if you weren’t at your best.” He offered lilting smile. I found it difficult to return it. 

“Why would she tell you of all people?”

A flicker of surprise crossed his face. “As principal conductor of the Ravkan opera, I make a lot of decisions. She cares, truly.”

“I know that.” I could feel another set of tears threatening to spill over. 

I had known Genya for a few weeks. I had know Mal for years. In the end, who was it that stood up for me when I needed it?

The answer was not Mal, and somehow that saddened me more than ever. 

“It will get easier.” Aleksandr said, as if he could read my mind. “Would you like to order or do you need more time.”

“I’ll order.” I had only looked at the menu once, and I picked the first thing I saw. “Blini.”

He looked surprised. “Are you sure you don’t need anything else?”

“Nope.” 

Aleksandr placed our orders with a cool ease that I wished I could emulate. 

“I was thinking another Puccini role as you did well in Butterfly,” he murmured. “Do you know the role of Mimi?”

“I know one aria. Only ‘si mi chiamano’.” I confessed. “How long do I have?”

“Five months.” 

“Then I will sing it.”

“Very well. Baghra says your bel canto was acceptable, and since Nazyalenskaya will not be singing many of her roles this season, we need a replacement and cover for Il trovatore...” Role after role was presented and Baghra’s slew of lesser insults quoted. 

In the end after all the food was gone and the paper written on, I had signed on to four roles this season, two of which I was familiar with, and a couple more prospects to be brought up with Alexander on the following season. At the mention of Alexander, his eyes clouded up again and I could feel a rigid anger emitting from him. 

What exactly had Alexander Lantsov done? I hoped that for one my suspicions regarding the uneasy dynamic with Genya was not what I guessed it was, and surely his lack of knowledge in arts despite his patronage was not worthy of such anger?

“One last thing, Alina. Will you be singing at the gathering as Alexander requested?” He asked. I wondered instead what it was like to call someone else by your name. “You don’t have to say yes.” He examined the scar on my hand again. 

“Why not?” I asked, a little surprised at my boldness. Again, being a different person was not so new anymore. From the Butterfly to Mal and Zoya and now Aleksandr. “I will sing.” I decided with more confidence.

“Then it is decided.” He shook his head ruefully. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Of what? Bad taste? I think I’ve had enough from listening to Ana Kuya’s recordings.”

“Then I wish you all the best.” Aleksandr nodded and led me to the car. “Should I take you to Genya’s?”

“No.” Maybe I would regret this, but I knew what had to be done. “The bus stop on Avenue of Sankt Ilya.” Wordlessly, he took his spot at the steering wheel. Somehow, no matter how many times I saw them, I marveled at his fingers, sculpted, built for his instrument. 

“You don’t look well.” He observed.

“How can you tell?”

“I don’t know.” He seemed at a loss for words. “I just figured some things out. It was mostly for telling if Baghra would be crankier than usual.”

“Was she your teacher too?”

“Yes.” He didn’t seem to like the admission. I didn’t press the matter. “Would it make you feel better if I told you that we aren’t so different after all?”

“In what ways? That we’re both human?”

“You know that it is pointless for me to say so.” His mouth curved up into a lopsided smile. “We’ve all worked hard. What I am saying is, you will find yourself where I am in a few years.” His voice was quiet. “Security. Prestige. A life I think that you would like.”

“Sounds good.” I admitted. “Except that I don’t think I’ll ever get there.”

“I have faith in you, Alina.” We were at a red light, and as he turned to me, I could not help but admire the way the light fell on his face. He was handsome, and there was no denying that. I took in the way the shadows met the light, the smooth marble planes, his black hair, and his eyes, grey, the color of a thundercloud. For a moment my eyes met his and I flicked my gaze away and prayed that my cheeks would not burn. 

“Thank you.” I whispered. 

“Is this the bus stop?” He asked. 

I scanned the side. “Yes.”

“Goodbye, Alina.”

“Goodbye.” I walked towards my home, but it was now much less. 

From the voices, I knew that Mal was not alone, I braced myself for a fight but Zoya slunk back onto the couch without commenting on any of her usual victims – that was either my career, appearance, or ability.

“I’m sorry, Mal.” I said. 

“Alina, I’m really sorry.” Mal looked guilty for once, which felt strange and it felt like the life I had known dissolving into mist. “I’ve asked Zoya to apologize as well.”

“I’m sorry, Alina.” It didn’t sound like she meant it at all, but maybe it was better than her faked lack of knowledge of what she had done to me. 

“It’s fine.” I said, feeling hollow. What I could not miss was the smirk that flitted across Zoya’s face like a small shadow. 

The next day, I found out why. 

Zoya had been cast as Norma, and from what I saw, it would be her comeback. A way to prevent me from ever resurfacing at the Ravkan opera. I wasn’t alarmed. At least this year and the next I had work, and with a few side gigs I could live reasonably. All day she had offered me triumphant smirks, which I showed no reaction to, which had seemed to miff her at least a little. 

Tonight, however, I would have an escape as an accompanist. That work did not pay too well, but I was fortunate enough for some of the earliest soloists I had worked with recommended me to their soloist friends and I usually had two or three of those per week. I was also on good terms with the owner of the bookshop, and when he was absent I would watch his shop for a modest fee whenever possible. That also brought in some extra cash, and with the occasional gig in the bar I could afford to have a reasonable lifestyle. 

A small trickle of guilt found me as I relished the fact that Zoya struggled with some of the coloratura, and simultaneously projecting. Zoya was a dramatic soprano, and she was also lithe and pretty which instantly catapulted her to fame. Maybe she was not the best dramatic soprano, but the audience loved their pretty faces. She could sing quite well too, although I could sense that her trill was a little unsteady and difficult to sustain. 

Despite the flaws, her performance was good. She carried herself with a regal grace and sang with a commanding tone. Her voice only seemed to grow in size and drowned out Beznikov’s tenor easily. The control she had was almost unreal as her voice softened for “mira, o norma” as she sang with Nadia, their voices blending. 

“What’s so fascinating?” Genya’s voice sounded to my left. “Nazya is back? Stop looking at her as if you want to be her.”

“I might.” I mumbled.

“You are worth much more than that, darling.” She sniffed. “Her attitude is dreadful.”

“I am inclined to agree.” 

“I have something for you.” She handed me a box with earplugs. “Should do the trick. I have a set as well. Can’t use them today because I’m needed at her costume changes.” Genya blew out an exasperated sigh. “I’m too tired to fight her about her technique.”

“You know that she’s good.” I muttered.

“What was that? Can’t hear you over the background noise.” 

“Noise is a little demoting even if it’s Zoya.”

“After hearing you sing everything else is noise.” Genya waved her hand dismissively. “And that’s it. I’m not exaggerating if Aleksandr will tell you the exact same thing. Even Baghra is less cranky.”

“I don’t agree about the last part.” Starting the role of Leonora had brought me against the full force of Baghra’s fury, and her uncanny ability to pick out every note she deemed not good enough. “She’s even worse. Just come to one of my lessons.”

“You haven’t known cranky until you’ve seen Lantsova.” Despite the light tone, a faint shadow formed across Genya’s face. “I’d take Baghra in a heartbeat.”

“You wouldn’t.” 

“Yes I would, and that’s final!” There was a hint of sadness in her eyes that quickly vanished. “Besides, at least I don’t have to cover her crow’s feet.”

“She doesn’t have any.” I groaned. “She’s like, ancient, and she doesn’t have any. I’m already getting some from the stress.”

“Would you like me to remove them?”

“Stay away from mine.” I put up my hands in mock defense. “How about Yekaterina’s? I’m sure she has plenty of things to worry about, like her hubby’s bastards.”

Genya looked as if she had been stabbed, then a wicked smile crossed her face. “Lawsuits.”

“How many?”

“Too many to count.” She turned to look at the stage. “I should probably go. She needs me to look good.” Winking at me, Genya gathered her cream skirts and ran towards the stage door, her hair flowing behind her in a cloud of flame. 

There was nothing for me to do other than wander around, so that was exactly what I did, even if I knew every corner. Funnily enough, I missed being a shadow because I had nothing to watch out for, other than entitled divas, but that was for everyone. Maybe I was said diva even if I despised the mere thought of it. 

The pit was nearly devoid of people, save for a few napping instrumentalists and Aleksandr. A tinge of nervousness wove its way through me, with it an instinct to run. To my dismay Aleksandr saw me and started making his way towards me, his black concert clothes ruffled and in disarray. I glanced at my own clothing, hand me downs from college friends, good enough, but something about the comparison made me feel more than a little inadequate. Maybe this was the first time I was truly, keenly aware of differences, differences that wouldn’t go away no matter how much I tried to ignore them. 

“Did you enjoy the rehearsal?” He asked, a flask in his hand, his fingers curled along the base. 

“I did.” I managed. After the past weeks, I would have expected interactions to become easier, and yet the reality was too different. “The pacing was really good.” I added after receiving a slightly quizzical look. 

“I could have sworn I saw Genya hand you earplugs.” A hint of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. 

“She did.” I admitted. “But it was good music. I won’t say no to that.”

A hint of surprise reached his eyes before his face fell back to his usual mask of indifference. “I remember offering you the gig at Alexander’s gathering.” He stiffened at the mention of Lantsov. “For his second son.” He added. 

“And what?”

“I need an answer.” He motioned for me to go forwards, and I did, even though I could feel my heart skittering in a trepak, like the ones back in Keramzin on better days. On the other days no one had enough food to lift their feet more than they had to. I closed most of the distance between us, and he showed me a message on his phone. 

I held back a snort. Alexander Lantsov was pompous in life...and moreso in written word. The pretentious use of formality made me uncomfortable and the use of elaborate language was excessive and quite frankly, my eyes hurt. 

“I zoned out after line two.” I admitted. I zoned out before the greetings were finished. 

“It’s a Saturday, the fifth of Feburary.”

“I don’t have much else to do. I’ll go.” I declared, a little more bold. Aleksandr watched me with a hint of amusement in his eyes, a smile playing at his lips. Sometimes I still forget that he was easily one of the most beautiful people I would ever know, and quietly, I studied his features all over again. 

“It won’t be a very difficult night.” He reassured me. “They won’t ask too much.”

“Baghra will.” I muttered. 

He laughed, a rather pleasant sound. “She asks too much of all of us.”

“What did she do to you?” I asked.

He did not answer. “I should go. I would like you to watch, though.” I’d like to have think it meant more than just having a newly established soprano watch a more experienced singer, but my mind wandered, and I was not unaccustomed for it to do so. I thought of small gestures, of my hand in his, of my heart pounding and cheeks flushing. Most of all, I wished there was not so much difference. 

I sat through the second act, then the third, and the urge to applaud was upon me. No matter how horrible Zoya was, she could sing, her noes explosive and passionate as Norma prepared her pyre. However, I did hear the strain, the harsh endings of each high note, the way her fingers twisted as she fought to keep afloat of the orchestra. 

Did she only take this role to spite me? No one would tell her that it was a wise decision. Zoya’s voice was large and opulent, but she didn’t have the same kind of coloratura capability that the great sopranos on record displayed during Norma, often adding their embellishments to prove their worth. 

Long after the rest of the cast dispersed, I still sat there, staring into nowhere, thinking of Norma, of Bellini’s score, and of all the recordings I had spent countless afternoons dissecting, hearing the small pauses and breaths and figuring my way through the writing. 

The stage was a different place without the singers and sets, and it was sad in a way. Without a cast and crew, this place was no more than old wood, no better than an organized pile of kindling. Then I heard notes, smooth, singing, and warm, the craft of a master violinist. Sitting in the first chair of the pit was Aleksandr, his long legs sprawled out and his bow and fingers moving in fluid motions. The piece was something familiar, something that I had definitely heard more than once, for both auditions and recitals. Softly, I hummed along with the melody, only stopping when the notes exceeded my range. 

With a single flourish, he played the last chord – A major – I noted silently, and turned to me, as if he had known that I had been there for quite some time. “Paganini, caprice twenty-four.” He bowed. 

“That’s why. I’ve heard it so many times.” I said honestly. “But you played it the best out of anyone I’ve heard.”

“I have a good instrument.” He shrugged. “Loaned from Lantsov, a Guadagnini.” He held out the instrument. I took it carefully, feeling the smooth wood and polished edges. A world class instrument for a world class soloist. 

“It’s the skill that matters. If you are good enough, a thousand ruble violin will sound like a Stradivarius. If you are not, a Stradivarius can sound cheap.”

A smile flit across his face as he stood up, placing the violin down gently. “Thank you.” He murmured, and I was painfully aware of how close we were now as we stood there, and I felt something that wasn’t just loneliness. 

“Harrumph.” I turned around, slightly frightened, and I slipped.

“Hello, Baghra.” Aleksandr answered easily as he caught my arm. “Are you alright?” He asked. I nodded. 

“Stupid girl.” I could have sworn she muttered just that as she left, her cane making a soft thump for each step she took.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh god, why can't they just kiss already? I swear I'm trying to make this quick but it's so difficult. 
> 
> Tell me what you think in the comments. Love speaks in flowers, but truth requires thorns. Happy 七夕，Chinese Valentine's day.

“Mal?” I called as I entered the door. Instead of him, I was greeted by silence.

I checked my phone. I had muted it during rehearsal, and surely he would have left me with some indication of where he was and when I could expect him back.

At least, this time he did not disappoint. I found a fairly long text and a winky face from Mal.

_Hey Lina, Zoya’s asked me to go as her date to a party. _It read. I groaned out loud. _Don’t worry I won’t bring her back until we’ve sorted out things. _A small giggle in relief escaped me. _I’ll be back at around ten. Stay safe.  
_

I checked my watch, and it was about six, which meant that I should probably have dinner. Instinctively, I reached for my phone to text Genya.

_Dinner? _I spammed with a couple of extra smiley faces for good measure. I turned on my sound, and soon a small beep sounded.

_if you don’t mind David. W/ him rn/ _Something about the shortened forms did not sound like Genya. If this was a chance to embarass her too, so be it.

_Where? _I replied.

_At the opera house. See ya. _

The nights in Os Alta were getting longer. Through the trees I could see little specks of starlight. I hurried down the road, and in last light, I saw the golden domes of the opera house gleaming blood red.

_Where in the opera house? _I typed.

_Tech room. See ya there. _

I had a rough idea of where that was, and I simply followed Genya’s laughter, a faint tinkling sound that was inherently melodic. That didn’t sound like us snorting at Zoya or imitating some poor unfortuante soul.

From quite far away, I could see Genya’s red hair bobbling up and down, a brown haired figure beside her. Walking closer, I could see a small flush on her cheekbones and she was playing with her hair, something very much unlike Genya. For once, she looked a little less than completely confident, almost a little shy, a little flustered as she nodded and said a few brief things. 

Shy was something that was so unlike Genya, but looking at her now, I realized it was just that she never had the occasion to be so.

Seeing me, she stepped out of the tech room. “Alina!”

I simply smirked. “Who is that?”

“David.”

“No. Who is he to you? Boyfriend?”

Genya looked defeated. “I wish. I honestly don’t even know.”

“Aw, who could resist you?” I looped an arm in hers. “Is he coming to dinner with us?”

She snorted. “If he can figure out what is wrong with the thirtieth light on the fiftieth row, which means no, since that doesn’t even exist.”

“He’ll come around.” I led her out. “Besides, you haven’t even told me much!” I pouted.

“Alright then.” She laughed.

“What do you two talk about, even?”

“Not much. Life, love, wires?” She pursed her lips. “Oh well, I don’t even know. He’s hardly interested in more than lights and wires.”

“Maybe you should wear string lights next time.”

“He’ll probably adjust them until they blind me.” Genya laughed, and I felt a little bit of guilt. True, she knew about Mal, but Mal was not the face that seemed to occupy my thoughts more often than not. The face that I saw most was Aleksandr’s face, his gray eyes closed, playing the tune of Paganini’s twenty fourth caprice with every emotion that I could not see upon his cool, impassive features, his fingers lithe as they glided across the strings.

How was it that he could feel all the meaning behind the notes, but I had never once seen him more than slightly aggravated or joyful?

“Earth to Alina!” Genya waved. “Goodness you are freaky when you zone out like that? You have someone in mind?” A smirk crossed her face.

“Not really.” I mumbled. “I just thought of something.”

“Thought of what? You don’t look so well.” She studied my face. “Are you that sick about Mal? He’s not worth this, you know.” She said softly. “It’s hard to love the wrong person too. I don’t even know about whether David is right for me.”

“He’s shy.” I said. “You might be scaring him a little.”

“I agree.” Her features relaxed. “Dinner at mine?”

“Sure.” I said. “But aren’t we a bit far?”

“Oh yes.” She said. “My car is parked at the opera house.” We skipped the rest of the way back, laughing ourselves silly as Genya recounted some of her previous romantic experiences, or disasters as she put it. “The last one had a sock drawer of pink anime socks!” She gasped we burst into giggles.

By car, Genya’s house was hardly far. I had not realized how much I missed being there, just me and Genya, drinking tea and talking about nothing and everything at the same time. I don’t remember much of what we had for conversation but I could feel the kind of ease we had when we confided in one another, making fun of Alexander Lantsov’s chin and lack thereof, Yekaterina’s obsession with her face, and all manner of frivolity. Sprawled across her couch, she would tell stories of opulent parties that they threw, the entertainment, and the ballets she accompanied Yekaterina to. Occasionally she’d tell stories of the sibling rivalries between their sons.

“Vasily is stupid but he’s also ambitious.” Genya scoffed. “Sobachka is a fox.”

“Why do people call him sobachka?”

“Probably a bastard.” Genya studied her nails. “Only Yekaterina knows for sure.”

“Are you sure that’s something you should be saying?”

“It’s not like he’s even around to hear it. Probably studying some sort of STEM or law or something.” Genya said sourly. “He’d probably get along with David.”

“I’m sure he’ll come around.” I reassured her, patting her hand. “You are one of the most wonderful people I have ever know. And have you looked in a mirror?”

“A lot of good that does for me.” She grumbled, but her face formed a smile anyway. “Now about Mal, what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know.” I said quietly.

“Here, let me help you.” She pushed me towards a mirror. Her hands moved quickly as she plaited my hair up, a crown atop my head, a few tendrils curling down my face. “Take a look.” She snapped a picture of the back.

“Thank you.” I never liked how I looked particularly, but this time, Genya’s hands were definitely working magic. The hair around my face framed it in such a way that it didn’t look plain. I looked better despite the dark circles that had only gotten worse ever since my debut with the Ravkan opera.

“I just thought you might need that.” Genya explained. “I’m good at what I do, and you don’t walk around confident enough. I just thought it might make it easier for you to walk with your back straight and unafraid.” There was a hint of sadness in her voice. Was she thinking of herself too? If only her problems were easier to solve, and knowing that I could not do anything left a hollow feeling in my stomach.

“How do you know all this?”

“Posture.” Genya smiled sadly. “It’s hard to feel inferior, no?” I nodded as she sat down and began doing her own hair, twisting licks of flame this way until she secured the locks with pins. “There, now we’re matching.” She declared happily. “I think dinner’s ready.” She had set a pot of pelmeni to boil some time prior.

After a few clanks, she brought out a bowl of steaming pelmeni with a dollop of smetana and butter. “Did you make these? They’re really good!” I mumbled between bites.

“Nah. I can’t be bothered. Yekaterina’s chef prepared some for me last week.” She winked. “I’m a very easy person to get along with, apparently.”

“I’ll agree with that. You’re wonderful.”

“And I agree with that.” Genya placed her bowl down gently. “Are you going home tonight or do you wanna stay?”

“I think I’ll go home.” I didn’t want to cause her more trouble.

“I’ll take you. The least I can do.” She checked her phone. “It’s already eight. Please don’t tell me you’re just waiting for Mal.” Her face was soft with pity.

“I’m not.” I said, but I was not ready to tell her anything else.

“I’m glad to hear that, I guess. If he’s willing to put up with Zoya’s behavior, he’s not worth your time.” She smiled. “You deserve better.”

The drive back in Genya’s car was comfortable. It turned out that we had similar tastes in music, and Genya’s time spent backstage at the Ravkan Opera had influenced her tastes quite a bit. I found myself slightly transfixed by a recording of Mendelssohn’s concerto in E minor, soft ethereal notes floating above the orchestra. The playing sounded strangely familiar, smooth and soulful and utterly beautiful.

Genya must have noticed my expression. “That was one of Aleksandr’s old recordings.” She sighed. “He doesn’t like them but everyone else does. Reminds him too much of his past I guess.” She paused as if she thought she had said too much.

“Still,” I said carefully, “They are very good.”

“Oh what has he done that isn’t?” Genya shook her head. “He’s driving himself crazy. And I’m driving you home. There you go, and hurry. It’s not very safe at night.”

“Goodnight, Genya.”

“Goodnight, Alina.” She kissed my cheek.

The sounds of Mendelssohn’s concerto reverberated in my head as I opened the door and surveyed the room. Nothing had changed, but something in me had changed tonight. I didn’t know what it was and why but I felt different, and maybe that was good. I didn’t feel like a mouse, afraid and shy. Instead, I felt like something else, but it was me and it was always me.

A few spontaneous notes slipped out, and I relished in the way the notes reflected themselves, the harmonics clear and bright. This was what singing should feel like. I thought back to Baghra’s words and it started making sense. It wasn’t just about producing the notes – it was making the music, but you needed the technique and understanding first. I still felt muddled when I thought of the specifics, but I knew how to do it, and it felt good.

After a hot bath, I lay awake, a little giddy. I sang a little flourish from Leonora’s first aria, and in the moment, that was the happiest I had been.

The next morning I had no rehearsal to go to. Instead, I had a text from Aleksandr.

_Are you free to discuss repertoire today? _It said.

_Yes. Where? _I texted back.

_Office. Opera house. Do you need me to pick you up? _ I considered the prospect of walking.

_Is it urgent? If so, I apologize for the inconvenience._

_Five minutes. _

I got dressed quickly and headed downstairs, and in a few minutes a gray car came into view. The windows rolled down to reveal Aleksandr, impassive and handsome as always.

Since when did I consider such things?

The silence was almost unbearable, without the same kind of comfort form music as in Genya’s car. Instead, I blurted out something I would probably regret for a long time.

“How old are you?”

“I don’t know exactly.” He seemed bemused.

“How do you not?” I blurted out.

“What about you?” He asked. I gave him a sour look. Keramsov orphans had one birthday. “I don’t know exactly, but thirty something, give or take.”

“Why?”

“My mother never bothered. I was too busy trying to stay alive to bother.” The cold, clipped tone chipped away at some of my newfound courage, and I managed to stay silent. Then his tone softened. “I haven’t thought about these things in a long time.” He admitted. “They were not happy times.”

“I think I can relate a little.” I replied. “I was raised in the Keramsov orphanage. I never knew my parents.”

“I never knew my father.” He said quietly. “It was always me and my mother, and she was hardly that.”

“I had Ana Kuya.” I shuddered. “But she was not gentle. And she had to be a mother to many of us. What was your mother like though?”

“She was cold and she still is.” He stiffened. “Was Ana Kuya like that?”

“Nope. She was fire and she burned pretty much everyone.” I shook my head. “I’m sure your mother cared about you though.”

“So it would seem.” He nodded. “Have you thought about your repertoire choices?”

“Not really.” I admitted. “I haven’t really found the time.”

“Has Baghra mentioned it?”

I was tempted to roll my eyes. “She’s too busy correcting my intonation and breath.”

“She can be a bit of a trial. How are you finding your lessons?”

“Helpful.” Not quite. “You were right though. I’m getting used to it.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” A ghost of a smile played at his lips.

I slipped on a pair of earbuds and started listening to a recording of my lesson with Baghra. At the first note, I cringed, and tried not to curl up or sob. But by the end of one aria, I looked visibly traumatized in the rearview mirror.

“You’re shaking.” Aleksandr said. "Is it that bad?"

“No one likes their own voice.”

“Not even you?” He smiled briefly before a look of concern took over.

“No one does.” I took out the earbuds, and I realized I had forgotten to plug them in completely. A hint of a smirk crossed his face.

“You sounded great.”

“Thanks.” Maybe one of those days I could learn to take a compliment gracefully, perhaps from Genya. I knew I was mumbling, but it was better than silence.

“Is it so hard to accept?” He cocked his head.

“No, it’s just...” I scrambled to find the words. “I don’t want to get ahead of myself.”

“You can’t.” He said as took my hand as we exited the car. I let him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to post this yesterday. Will make up for this by writing more. 
> 
> If anyone wants me to draw Alina and Genya's dresses please do tell me. 
> 
> Side note that if it wasn't obvious, Genya was basically forced into becoming the mistress, but specifics? I'll explore those...later :)
> 
> The lesson bit is actually a transcript of what me singing Solveig's song feels like, except my teacher is way nicer than Baghra *evil cackling*. Poor Alina, her teacher is so mean...but Baghra is based off my piano teacher who is less than ten years older than me, very young and pretty and energetic, and as mean as the original Baghra in the books. She's also a little bit of Botkin. 
> 
> I promise guys I will post more as school is starting and I want this finished.

I had eight two hour lessons a week with Baghra now that I needed to prepare a program for the Lantsov’s fete. Instead of her usual indifference towards so-called frivolties, she had her stick at ready and I could never get through more than two lines of music at once. 

“Breathe.” She snapped. “It isn’t going anywhere. Your voice wants to sing.” She poked my abdomen with her stick. “Feel that? I should be poking at a shapeless blob. Use the air.”

The next notes that came out were much better. 

“Do it again.” She ordered me. 

“I’m doing my best.” I muttered.

“Who cares if you’re doing your best when you are making the saints weep in agony?” She spat. “Do it right for once, you useless thing.” My response was to sing the way she taught me, and all the things fell into place, spine, ribs, diaphragm...It was almost as if I was being reborn, almost as if this was the beginning of truly living. “I want you to sing the variations.”

“Come per me sereno, oggi rinacque il d!” No sooner had the first high note emerged she slammed her stick on the floor. I jumped. 

“Stop under singing.” She muttered, exasperated. “Your voice is what it is. Do not try to change it for something you like better because that’s the road to vocal problems and I will not train a soprano who fears her own voice.” I nodded. “Do that again and do it right.”

I started the line again, taking care of the vowels, the breath, the position of my tongue. She nodded, and I continued. 

“Find the place, and stay there. You are in control of your voice. Your body wants to sing well, so let it.” She conducted the meter with quick motions. “Don’t speed. Find what you can of your voice and what Amina is feeling. Find Amina and she will find you. What else is a voice good for?”

Sometimes, I felt her word had a shadow, something that she slipped out, something that she wasn’t supposed to say or tell me, but working with her was hard enough without guessing at what secrets she harbored in her cold black eyes. 

“I want you to sing the full aria now.” She tapped her cane in the rhythm. “From ‘care compagne’.”

“Care compagne, e voi..” I sang the vowels, rounded and refreshed at every turn, the notes opulent and spinning as Baghra’s accompaniment gradually increased in volume, pushing me towards the aria. 

“Variations after repeat.” 

As I was ordered, I sang the first part as written, Bellini’s lines and phrases and notes flowing steadily with each beat. The high notes I prepared for, the previous vowel more open, and it was a testament to Baghra’s teaching, perhaps, because the high notes forced me to sing with better breath, otherwise all that would be left was a crackly, sorry sound that was no more than a shadow of any other. 

“Better. That was acceptable.”

Only acceptable? I felt a little surge of annoyance. Again, this was Baghra, and who else could I count on to hold me to a higher standard? 

One thing that most of the singers and orchestra agreed on was that the audience did not understand technique. Frequently, we’d hear the bad playing only for it to be lauded by much of the press. The last performer of a botched Paganini caprice had become a sort of joke behind the curtains but hardly any publication cared about his left hand pizzicato or bowings – all they cared was sounding posh and getting viewers. The rehearsal accompanists often complained that could get no work as a soloist.

Opera was declining, and with it the people who support everything that we’ve done.

“Dreaming of dancing with your dark prince?” Baghra smacked me with a look of utter contempt. Or disgust. Either way there was no mistaking in the way she contorted her face into true revulsion. 

“No, but I’m sure I can manage that.” 

She harrumphed and started the introduction again. The aria goes smoothly, smooth enough, and even the final E-flat spins and shines as an orchestra played by a single piano starts the ascending octaves until the ending chords. 

“Good enough. Now get out.” Baghra shooed me off with a wave of her hands. 

It was the first time I had really noticed them, slender and elegant and so unlike Baghra, who was harsh and unyielding as the Tsibeya winters. 

I did as I was told. I gathered my scores into a neat stack and walked out, making sure to shut the door so that her hot cave would stay a hot cave. Outside it was far too cold, or was it just a consequence of being in Baghra’s hut, the fire always burning, the stove always bubbling?

Shivering, I wrapped my scarf a little tighter around my neck and pulled my hat a little lower. I could not afford to get sick at this point. Maybe if I got sick when the season was over no one would notice, but it was still three months away. The first trovatore was still more than a month away, but I still had the fete that was in one day and a few more nights of Butterfly. 

Wait. I didn’t even have a dress. The last dress I probably lost somewhere the dressing rooms of the opera house, and showing up in an old dress could be considered a slight, especially since Lantsov was the one who was essentially holding up the opera house with funding. 

The bus station was also frozen over, little icicles hanging from the attempt at protection from the elements. I took out my phone and texted Genya.

Do you have anything I could borrow for tomorrow?

After a few moments, I got a little ping. Darling, come over tomorrow and we’ll figure something out. 

I grinned. Thanks so much Genyusha. I could almost picture her scowl at the name.

Too bad I can’t really do the same for you, Alinochka. Damn the orphanage people. They really suck at choosing names.

As soon as the bus came in I stood up to get a better look. It was my bus, and I swiped my card awkwardly, my fingers still frozen through the gloves during the short walk from Baghra’s little hut to the bus station. 

I could not help thinking of Mal again. How many times had we rode this very bus together as children, laughing and joking along the way? What had happened between us, that had driven us so far from one another?

Put him out of your mind. A small rose up in me. You have roles to sing and you can’t wait to run back to someone who doesn’t care? Pathetic. As much as I hated that voice, it was right. If I didn’t step out of this stupor, it could lose me contracts and roles that could change who I was. 

Maybe one day I wouldn’t be an unwanted little girl who clung on to memories, who was still lost in the past trying to figure things out. Maybe one day I would embody greatness and live without worry. The thought brought a smile on my face, until I saw that we were approaching the Sankt Ilya bus stop, and I scrambled off with my bag. For a moment, I just stood there, watching everything move, feeling a bit of myself slip away with the revelations. 

Don’t get lost. I told myself. Go home. Practice. Have a light dinner. Mark your fingerings for a Chopin Etude. That was enough to keep me distracted. 

For an hour I watched the sun slowly sink below the horizon and to that I sang come per me sereno exactly as Baghra asked me to. I sang the aria and recit five times, taking little sips of water in between. Dinner I prepared with chicken stock and whatever vegetables I could find the kitchen, sipping the soup slowly as I marked 1 and 5 on my copy of the Black Keys etude. The first note would be the third finger, and I marked the finger crossings to the best of my ability. I mimed the movement of the left hand, tapping on my desk the rhythms and chords. 

The next day, I got several urgent texts from Genya telling me that she would pick me up. Walking outside while wrapping a scarf around my neck, I snuck onto the passenger seat of her car as she typed furiously on her phone. The contact name was David Fillipovich Kostyk. I smirked and she turned around, alarmed. 

“You almost gave me a heart attack.” She grumbled. 

“You almost made me feel lonely and single.” I grinned. “Who was that?”

“David.” She replied nonchalantly, but her cheeks went pink. The way to her house I teased her relentlessly about him as she rolled her eyes before finally admitting how much she actually liked him.

“Why don’t you ask him out?” I prodded her. 

“Can’t.” Her eyes brightened with tears that threatened to spill out and her nose turned a little red. “Lantsov.” She gritted her teeth. 

I knew not to press the issue. “Why the hurry today?”

“You’ll see.” She forced a smile. “I have something just for you.”

Stepping into her house was almost like going home – somehow, the little flat I shared with Mal was not home anymore, and this house of Genya’s was the most welcoming thing in the world. 

She gestured to large boxes. “These arrived today.”

I opened one cautiously. Yards and yards of black silk rippled out. 

“You wouldn’t have picked black. And you were never this flat.” I whispered. The truth was too much to comprehend because there was only one possibility left. A troubled look crossed her face.

“It wasn’t me.” She admitted quietly. “Aleksandr. It was him.”

“How did he know?” 

“I told him,” She said matter-of-factly, but she was visibly uncomfortable. “I was going to ask him for assistance. I’m sorry, Lina, if you didn’t want me to.”

“I’m not mad or anything. The dress is beautiful.” I smiled. “But help me into it.”

“Of course, of course.” She grinned. Behind me, she fumbled with the laces and buttons and smoothed out the long, hanging sleeves. “Here,” she pushed me towards a mirror, and I had to check a few times to make sure that it was indeed me. The face was mine, and the figure too, but something about the dress changed me. I was less of the girl I’d always seen and more of a woman, and it felt as if I left part of me when I changed into the gown.

“It’s beautiful.” I ran my hands over the golden embroidery at the edges of each sheer sleeve, flowing down past my hands all the way to my ankles. I turned and saw Genya’s almost pitiful expression, clearly troubled. “What’s wrong?”

“This hasn’t happened before.” She confessed in a quiet voice. “I don’t know what to make of it.” There was a note of warning in her words. 

“How?”

“Aleksandr hardly notices anything around him.” She continued. “He’s conducted so many orchestras that it hardly makes any sense to form any bond. He doesn’t notice much.” She repeated, a silent plea emerging in her eyes. “Just, Alina, beware of powerful men.” 

I could sense that she wanted to say more, but her normal, carefree tone returned as she ran a comb through my hair, humming an off tune version of funiculi, funicula. I wanted to ask more but she seemed far more occupied and unwilling, thus I kept my mouth shut and allowed her to do her work. 

I do not know for how long I sat at that table, but when she was finally finished, she handed another mirror to me so that I could see the maze of braiding that she had woven, the way that the locks curled and shined and the way they matched to the strand that she left loose around my cheek. I hugged her, but she pushed me off. 

“Don’t ruin your hair.” She laughed. “I didn’t just spend all that time for nothing.” I did the graceful thing and stuck my tongue out. “Aleksandr will pick you up.” At the mention of him, her smile disappeared again and I could sense a nervous tremor in her hands as she applied a bright red paste to my lips and darkened my lashes with another similarly disgusting paste. She called them gloss and mascara respectively but they smelled as awful as they looked. 

The results were spectacular though. “You have good skin.” She admired longingly. “Look.”

Something had changed completely. The stranger in the mirror looked coy and a little haughty, her eyes catlike and mysterious, a red lip that made her skin pale and smooth like alabaster. 

“I can’t bear the rejection again.” I said as I patted her on the back. “You really outdid yourself.”

“Considering that you are actually workable, I didn’t.” She shrugged. “Check your phone.”

She was right, as usual, and I had one text from Aleksandr. I’ll pick you up at Genya’s. 

A little smile formed. Genya simply shook her head. 

“I’m going to change as well.”

“Are you not going with us?” 

“I have to go prepare Yekaterina.” She spoke the name like a curse. “Even if she’s, ah, not well.” A look of contempt appeared. “But what do you think of this?” 

She held out a long white dress, woven with glittering gold and set with tiny sequins so fine that they were hardly noticeable. 

“It’s gorgeous.” I ran my hands across the fabric. “Where did you get it?”

“A gift.” She looked slightly unhappy. 

We could both guess why. Lantsov. Yekaterina. How would she react knowing that her husband gave an expensive dress to another woman? 

And the other woman was her own stylist and beautician. It seemed hardly fair for either of them. From our conversations, I could guess easily that it wasn’t her idea. 

“Run along. He should be here any minute.” Genya shooed me out. “No slouching!” She yelled as I walked down the steps in heels, willing myself to stay upright and avoid bone breakage. 

A gray car pulled in, and a tall man dressed in black stepped out. There was no mistake in who it was from the sharp jaw and gray eyes. 

“Hello, Alina.” He gave a small smile. 

“Hello, Aleksandr.” I smoothed out my skirts in the passenger seat. 

In the window, I could see a shadow of Genya, hunched over a table and I wondered between my departure and our last conversation, what exactly had happened.


	8. Chapter 8

It turned out the only reason Aleksandr was even present was that he was asked to perform. He probably didn’t care that much about me other than my value as a soprano, I reminded myself to keep from disappointment. 

I sat through the twentieth rendition of the 24th caprice of Paganini this year, but he hardly made me tire of the tune and themes; rather, his playing was breathtaking, complete with sparkling virtuosity. Was it a glance at me during the third variation, his eyes cool and unreadable? Or was it just coincidence that his playing faltered a little?

The next piece he offered was Ernst’s transcription of Erlkonig, another massively difficult piece. During my time in the conservatory I had looked at the score of every transcription of Erlkonig and it formed the basis of my coursework for a theory course. I could not recall the name, but for that project I had stayed up and watched recordings and observed fingerings and wrist movements. 

His rendition earned him more applause which only died down as he began his third piece, the fifth caprice of Paganini. The entire audience held their breaths as he navigated the almost chaotic middle section with ease and grace, his fingers nimble and quick across the neck of his violin, polished and shining under the heavy lighting. The ending arpeggios were clean and fluid, the notes ringing and his vibrato even. With the crowd, I clapped and cheered as he stepped down from the stage.

“Your turn.” He led me up and the audience cheered again. 

“Are you going to accompany me?” I asked. 

He looked surprised. “Yes.”

“Come per me sereno from Bellini’s La sonnambula.” I announced with a confidence I did not feel. I started the aria but it still felt strange and wrong. In desperation, I found Aleksandr’s eyes. He nodded and motioned me to go on. By the time he began playing the harmonies of the chorus and orchestra I found my voice again, and the notes rang out with surprisingly clarity. 

I didn’t let myself be distracted by his uncanny ability to reduce the parts for solo while paying attention to every detail and note. It was only during the extended sections that I allowed myself to marvel at his fingers and the way they moved, the smoothness of his bow movement, and the true mastery that he commanded as he played each shining note. I marveled at the final octaves and chords that had no harshness or unpleasant squeaks that marred their beauty as he emphasized the descending scles. 

Through the aria, we found each other’s eyes far too often and I suppressed the butterflies that had emerged and steadied my voice each time. The final E-flat shone and sparkled as it reverberated off the walls of the ballroom-esque hall, the roofs gilded with gold and painted with intricate designs and images. 

The final chords rung out as he lifted his bow and took my hand. Together, we bowed as the applause slowly formed. 

I could hear shouts of “brava” and “bravissima Starkova”. Someone in the audience had begun to should “more”, and soon others followed.

“Give them what they want.” Aleksandr whispered in my ear. 

I nodded. “Rusalka’s song to the moon?” I asked. 

“Dvorak?” He asked. “I hope that’s the only song to the moon.”

“It is.” I whispered to him, although it was difficult even in heels. He was a tall man. “Song to the Moon, from Dvorak’s Rusalka.” I called out, and most slipped away from their conversations to offer polite applause. 

The first part of the introduction he played pizzicato, plucking the strings lightly, playing a clear arpeggio. By the time he started the second part of the introduction, he had the focus of the audience. 

I counted the four bars and began on the last beat. The first syllables were soft and ethereal, a sigh, but as I entered the octave leaps, I allowed myself a crescendo as Rusalka pleaded with the moon and expressed her love. 

Again, I allowed myself to marvel at the scales and cleanness that Aleksandr performed with during the break between the first segment and repeat. The low notes following the repeat I sang more lightly, allowing my voice to settle in a way that did not mean a almost contralto-esque sound, more musical than a borderline growl. The finale was envisioned to be spectacular, and I could only hope I achieved the desired effects, with the final repeats of “mesicku, nezhasni”, a crescendo up to an extended B-flat, then a dimuendo, then another G-flat in forte, then a quiet G-flat, an octave lower, almost like a prayer. 

From the thunderous applause, I knew I had done well. This time, I took Aleksandr’s hand and curtsied, feeling a reassuring squeeze as I did so. 

As we stepped off the stage, he turned to me. 

“You have done well.” He said quietly, his lips quirking up into a half smile. 

We saw Alexander Lantsov heading over. “That was wonderful!” He lifted my hand to his lips. “We must make arrangements.” He began to lead me towards the center of the hall. I had an urge to wipe my hand, but where? Not on this gown. “This is the soprano Alina Starkova.” He introduced me to several men and women clad in elaborate clothing, less Ravkan and more French? I did not know that style, but it was in no way Ravkan. 

Again he led me away and I was much too thrilled after performing to notice, except that as the lights dimmed and the sounds of the party faded away as I became aware of the vice-like grip. 

“Where is this?” I asked, my voice an octave higher, and I felt fear creep up onto me.

“Do you know how lovely you are?” Lantsov turned around to face me. All I could notice was how close his face was and I froze, unable to even utter a hoarse whisper. “Alina,” He breathed. 

I found my voice and strength to push him away, but instead I found my wrist restrained by his hand. With my other hand, I lashed at his face and it found its target, but it was much too weak. I felt silk ripping and with what remained of my strength I kicked him and screamed, but it was futile. His hand still pawed at the bodice. 

Then commotion could be heard, footsteps. I yelled and fought as figures emerged. A pale face, devoid of emotion emerged, with a head of flames and the haughty face of Yekaterina. 

“Alexander Lantsov?” Aleksandr uttered his name coldly. “What is this?”

I saw a flash of real fear in Lantsov’s eyes. For once, he seemed at a loss for words.

Yekaterina uttered an unintelligible sob and ran off, and Lantsov’s face contorted both in rage and pain. 

“You did this!” He pointed at Aleksandr. “This is your fault.”

“I am at no fault for bringing a soprano to entertain you and your guests.” He spat. 

Genya rushed over and helped me up. I realized that my legs were shaking and almost jelly like, and she half-carried me away slowly, hearing the sounds of Aleksandr’s angry exchange with Lantsov. 

A look of guilt crossed Genya’s face. “I should’ve found you earlier.” 

A sob emerged from my throat. I held onto her as she took in the damage. 

“Have my coat.” She said quietly. We covered the long rip to the best of abilities and she led me out of the hall. I leaned on her for support, sobs racking my body and I felt the desperate need for a bath. “My house?”

I nodded, and leaned against Genya during the entire drive. If she had any objections, she did not state them. 

Still clinging onto her, she led me up to the bathroom and undid the laces, and without a word left the room. Maybe she understood how I felt, or maybe she just knew how it felt a thousand times amplified. 

I scrubbed myself until my skin was pink and raw from the rough sponge I had took across my arms mercilessly, for saints know how long. 

“Are you done?” Genya’s voice sounded, muffled and distant. “I know you feel horrid, but no need to harm yourself.” I wrapped a towel around my body and stepped out of the tub. In the mirror, I was pink like a newborn, my eyes puffy and nose swollen. Genya knocked the door again. “Can I come in?”

“Sure.” I answered, and she emerged with a white sweatshirt and black pants. 

“Let me do this.” She rubbed cream onto my face and brushed away the remaining tears and snot that were running down my face. “Should I dry your hair.” I nodded, numb and yet a sense of shame overwhelmed me. 

What was wrong with me? It was never my fault. 

Genya’s movements were gentle and slow, but I still found myself flinching slightly at touch. She sighed. “Alina, you’re shaking. Do you need sometime alone?” 

I shook my head. “No, that’ll be worse.”

She placed the towel down gently and sat down beside me. I noticed that she did not take my hands or wrap her arms around my shoulders. “Would you like to go down with me for some tea?”

It sounded good. “I wasn’t cautious enough.” I sobbed. 

She looked conflicted as she reached an arm over before stopping, letting it hang in mid-air. “It’s never your fault.” She said quietly. “Never.” There was an urgency in her voice that stopped the sobs. “Listen, Aleksandr will help you. He will take care of all this, and we will find a way to bring him to justice.”

We sat on her couch, and she draped a blanket on my shoulders. “It’s cold today.”

I sipped the tea slowly, relishing the taste of tangy roselle, the berries, and tried to ignore what had happened only an hour earlier as I examined the flavors. 

A knock sounded at the door. Genya got up to open the door and Aleksandr in a black coat stepped in, took off his boots and sat across us without a word. To our surprise, David followed him, hunched over a small contraption and Genya led him in gently. 

“Should we start now?” Genya asked anxiously. 

Aleksandr nodded. “Alexander Aleksandrovich Lantsov has been taken into custody for both rape and attempted rape and child molestation.” He said. I gasped. “Alina, if you feel well enough, his trial is next month and we need testimony as well as the footage.”

“Footage?” I asked. 

“He did not realize there was a camera.” Genya said fiercely. “Thanks to David.”

David did not acknowledge her words and simply wrote something down. 

“The question is, do you feel well enough to testify?” Aleksandr’s eyes found mine.

I looked at Genya’s pleading gaze and I realized that this was a chance to avenge her suffering as well. Even though I knew I might as well as die from fright or start sobbing uncontrollably, I had to do this for us, and the other girls who must have suffered. 

“I feel well enough.” I said shakily. 

“You don’t sound well enough.” Aleksandr said softly, “and it’s natural. It will get a little better. Would you like to stay here with Genya or go home?” I felt a small pang for Mal, for the safety he was. 

“Home.” I answered, my voice stronger. Maybe it would help to have Mal. 

Aleksandr stood up. “I will be back after I take Alina home.”

Genya nodded. “Alina.” There was almost a hint of guilt in her eyes. “Please don’t ever think it’s your fault.” 

I nodded. 

I curled up on the passenger seat of Aleksandr’s car, and he played music, but nothing that could remind of what had happened earlier. 

“You look sick.” He commented, a frown passing over his features. 

“I can’t possibly be used to this, can I?” I asked hoarsely. He pulled over and removed a glove. I stiffened as his hand found its way to the back of my neck.

“Look at me.” He commanded. “And I am telling you right now that I promise you justice. He will never step within your sight again when I am finished.”

“Really?”

“I promise you this.” He nodded solemnly and leaned in a little closer. Abruptly, he dropped his hand and replaced his glove. “Promise me that you will do your best to heal yourself.” 

“I will.” I said as I stepped out of the car and walked towards the apartment. Visions of the night’s events came back and I felt a sense of panic taking over me. I ran all the way up the stairs until I had to stop to open the door. 

“Alina?” Dubrov and Mikhail, and thank goodness, Zoya, were not over. 

“Mal.” I nearly choked on a sob. 

“What is it?” He asked, and I shook my head. “Was it Lantsov?” I looked up in surprise. “I saw the news. His arrest. They mentioned your name too.”

“They-” I started sobbing uncontrollably, and despite my best efforts, when I thought it was over the sense of shame and fear washed over me and took over what little control I had left. “The tabloids?” I gasped. 

“No.” Mal looked pained as well. “Everything.”

“The benefits.” I gasped between the sobs. “of being prominent.” And with that I realized how bleak this case was. What if with his money and connections he could get himself out? What if he wanted revenge on me and Genya and Aleksandr and David? 

The rest of the night no one slept. I sobbed some more and Mal brought towels to wipe the tears. I leaned against him as he cursed Lantsov’s name and we prayed to all the saints that this would go well. 

“I would go to court with you.” He smiled weakly. “But is it lawful? I will support you any way I can.”

“Thank you.” I clasped his hand tightly. “Thank you for everything. ”

“We’ll always find each other somehow.” He smiled sadly. 

“Always.” I murmured in assent. “Always.”

The sun rose as we realized that neither of us had slept properly and it was thankfully a Sunday. That day, I slept restlessly from the first light to four in the afternoon, my dreams plagued with the memories that I would rather forget. But I couldn’t, and I shouldn’t. Genya’s justice. Mine. The chance for her to be free and for me to be free as well. 

I could not let Lantsov win. With that sentiment, I slept a little more soundly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh. My. God. Why Lantsov why? 
> 
> If anyone wants to bash that guy feel free to bash him at phantom.2008@yahoo.com (my personal email) and I'll pick the best death for him. He sure as hell deserves it. I will explain all the charges later and I might post a little less often because I have to do schoolwork. 
> 
> Tell me what you think in the comments. Like, comment and subscribe :) I will be incredibly grateful if you are willing to do so - and at no cost to you :)
> 
> BTW if anyone's confused, she grew up with Mal, and he is like family. She is much more trusting of him than anyone else despite his list of exes and Zoya.
> 
> And I crossed 20k words in 10 days! I'm really happy about being effective. Once again, please do celebrate with me and this milestone.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might have been a little drunk on homemade kvass and tired. It's nine something and I usually sleep at nine. 
> 
> I know the courtroom was not the best, but I tried. 
> 
> Tell me what you think :) Like, share, subscribe ;) Genya and Alina will love you forever if you do because they'll cease to exist without support. 
> 
> I feel horrible. I scarred Alina as well. And that will delay the inevitable Alarkling. ARGHHHHHH
> 
> This is one of my longest chapters to date. Enjoy!

Aleksandr promised me roles the next season and found replacements for the next two performances of Butterfly and the last Trovatore. I spent a week doing hardly anything except for going to my lessons. If Baghra didn’t notice the way my eyes never quite looked right and the dark circles that shadowed them, she didn’t say a thing, opting only to hit me with her stick and call me useless. 

That was so much more bearable, and I needed the distraction. Baghra’s criticisms forced me to look for better sound and technique, to look for the most raw and emotional tones, to gesture and perform and command a stage. It was easy to forget everything with Baghra’s impatient attitude and delicate playing. 

Genya visited me often with pastries and little cakes and fed me bite by bite as we watched movies and cried together, me for all that I felt, and her for finally being able to express how she had felt all those years. We both gained several pounds and neither of us wanted to look at a scale again while we were on it. 

Aleksandr was busy conducting rehearsals, and I heard from Genya that Zoya had strained her voice on the first night of Norma, and the rest of the run was cancelled. Things were not looking good for the opera house. Zoya still came by but she was much less rude and entitled towards either me and Genya, and once when Mal wasn’t there, she opted to watch a movie with us silently, only saying a few thanks for the pastries Genya bought. I suppose being hurt changed her, and the strain that Norma caused had put her out of work for at least three months, possibly six if she wasn’t careful. 

Even if we didn’t like one another, we found common ground in hurt and loss. Somehow, later, we ended up going to a cafe together, the three of us, sipping our teas and coffees in silence. 

“I still hate you, Starkova.” Zoya muttered. “But you’re bearable.” She sniffed.

“I’m glad to hear that.” I replied drily. 

“How does this look?” Zoya gestured at her scarf. 

“Oh, it distracts from your weird incisors.” Genya clapped her hands. “Amazing.”

“What are wrong with them?” Despite doctor’s warnings, Zoya raised her voice. 

“Oh, nothing.” Genya shrugged. “You’re the prettiest walrus I know.”

Zoya muttered something and we went back to silence, the occasional beep of a text being the only sound we would hear. Both me and Zoya clustered around Genya’s phone as a text from David came in. She had asked him out as soon as Lantsov was taken into custody and they were together. Was it a surprise? No. 

Genya finally looked a little happier, her cheeks flushed pink as she typed frantically. Despite what we felt, me and Zoya exchanged a knowing smirk. 

Somehow, somewhere, a lot of rivalries went to waste. Zoya wasn’t as bad...but she was still pretty horrible. Honestly? I couldn’t care less. It was someone else to relate with, someone else who would mourn loss with me. I could glean bits of actual, human emotion from Zoya, and considering how I had thought of her, I felt a little bad. Almost. 

The three of us became a sort of awkward trio, because even though we hurled barbs and scorned one another and rarely tlaked more than that, there was a kind of understanding that went between us that wasn’t just limited to me and Genya. 

On other occasions, Mal would join us without Mikhail and Dubrov, a welcome occasion. He always had a way with words and laughter. In his presence, it was hard not to smile or laugh or forget all of our woes with glasses of homemade kvass that fizzed and danced in our mouths. Genya always made a point to wear something old because she was at risk of having kvass come out of her nose and onto her clothing. 

Life wasn’t so bad until the trial date neared hour by hour, day by day. The nightmares returned. Zoya sulked. Genya’s unease followed us like a shadow. Aleksandr’s lawyer was representing me and Genya by extension. I did not know him, but everyone else did. 

Kaz Brekker. Dirtyhands. That reputation was not reassuring. I was not sure, but he was known to be able to weasel anyone out of any situation, and I could be glad that Lantsov did not move fast enough to have him. 

Genya as it turned out had prepared for this trial much longer than I had, and I followed her, allowing her to lead me by the hand. Alexander stood in black clothes, the bright stripe of reflective fabric marking him as a prisoner, his face gaunt. He had aged ten years in a month. As she saw him, Genya’s eyes betrayed fear and anger as she squeezed my hand tighter and pulled me closer. I could see her chin trembling and Yekaterina in the audience, her face impassive. 

The court was much smaller than the court I had expected for someone’s of Lantsov’s standing. Behind him, his attorney, a young man with blond hair looked far more guilty than he could ever possibly feel. The face felt familiar. Was it Lantsov’s second son? He rarely appeared in news or gossip, although his parentage was somewhat murky and I could see why. Blond hair, lean face, strong chin, much unlike his father or brother. 

The judge began to speak, but neither me and Genya could hear as she trembled and I reached out to calm her. Even if she had been waiting for this moment for very long, she could never be ready for what must have been going on in her mind. 

We all raised our right hands to swear to presenting the truth, and still our left hands found one another. 

Neither of us were feeling well. 

Kaz stood up, gripping onto his cane. With a hoarse voice, he began. 

“Your honor,” His voice rang out, clear and loud despite the raspy quality. “The defendent has been charged with the crimes of rape, attempted rape, child molestation, and child rape.” The statement sent out a gasp of shock. I shook my head. How oblivious were these people? “The evidence shows that on the fifteenth of feburary, Alexander Alexandrovich Lantsov attempted to force himself on Alina Starkova, and subsequent investigations have found strong evidence that he also abused Evgenia Sergeyevna Safina both as a child and adult.” His declaration was met with a pointed glare from Lantsov and Yekaterina. 

The blonde lawyer stepped up. “Your honor, my client is presumed innocent until proven guilty.” His voice trembled. We all knew. 

There was no evidence that could pull Lantsov out of this pickle, especially since I was prominent enough to garner an audience. 

The judge spoke slowly. “The prosecution, the first testimony.”

Genya stood up, her eyes fierce, hands balled into fists as she stepped up in her work uniform. The look on Yekaterina’s face, I suppose, would’ve made her a little happier. 

“My name is Evgenia Sergeyevna Safina. I worked in the Lantsov household since I was seven.” She started. “I was the beautician for Yekaterina Ivanova, and around when I was thirteen or fourteen, Alexander Alexandrovich started paying me what I considered inappropriate attention.” She turned to face him. “He commented on a child’s chest and hips, and what was worse was that he showed no shame in doing so.” As she held her head higher I could notice a tremor developing. “He did this to an already insecure girl, and he always knew to make it sound as if it were my fault when I could control nothing. Around when I was sixteen and a half,” she clenched her jaw. “He followed me to my quarters and pinned me against a wall. There was no crying out because no one would hear, and if anyone did, no one would dare question him.” Her chest heaved as she balled her hands again. “Most of us worked that job because there was no other, but I could make a living as a beautician and artist. He had told me that if I dared speak against him he would ruin me forever.” The look on her face, now directed at Lantsov, made me shudder. “Now, today, I put my entire life on the line as I speak the truth that has haunted me for years. He may be a man, but he is no better than swine.” She added emphasis on the word swine. “My career will be ruined, and my reputation too. But right now, justice is what is on the line. If I don’t find the justice for the other girls here,” she gestured at the people behind me. A few other girls sat in their gold and white uniforms, eyes downcast. “I have no right to look at them. I have been trapped with warning and unable to pursue even the most basic of rights – the right to love who I wish. Today I wish to free all of us by this testimony.”

“The first witness may be called.” A woman dressed in red stepped up slowly. 

“My name is Nina Zenik.” She began. “Genya Sergeyevich has permitted me to release patient records and transcripts.” 

An audible gasp rose up from Yekaterina’s direction.

“Evgenia Safina first visited me around fifteen years ago.” She said softly. “I swore secrecy until she permitted me to tell. I am a licensed therapist and she visits me regularly.” Her eyes went cold. “She also told of a man forcing himself on her regularly, and only told me the name after two years. The transcripts.” She handed a copy to the jury, and another to the judge. “I want justice for my client, since this Alexander Alexandrovich has forced himself on Evgenia Sergeyevna countless times and caused her many problems, including body image issues, recurring nightmares, insomnia, and self harm. If the price is his life in chains, I believe he deserves it. His life is not worth more than the countless others that he has ruined. Look around at this room. There are more girls from the estate, and someone who is hardly relevant. Look how far his reach is. If this is happening to a fully grown woman working with a licensed therapist, what do you think the others can suffer? The possibilities are always limitless and only more horrible. Thank you.”

The judge spoke again. “Does the defense have any questions?”

Lantsov’s lawyer shook his head. “No, your honor.”

“The witness is excused. The second witness may be called.” David shuffled up slowly. 

“I work in part for the Lantsov household.” He said quietly. “I monitor the security on occasion due to repairs. The one that is always broken is in an abandoned hall, and every time Yekaterina Ivanova repairs the camera it breaks, and many times where I repair it the sounds coming from the camera are inhumane, cries, and the voice of Alexander Alexandrovich.” He looked terrified. “The camera I had repaired specifically before the fete was this very camera, and I have nearly an hour of audio and footage.”

The audio was played, then the video, and both me and Genya covered our ears and closed our eyes. The girls behind us followed suit. 

The jury looked even more disgusted, and maybe that was a good thing. There were still more testimonies. 

“The second testimony.” 

“My name is Tatiana Ivanova Orlova.” The girl began, fiddling with the edges of the uniform. “Like Evgenia Safina, I worked in the household from a very young age, for ten years, and I am only twenty two now.” A glimmer of hate emerged. “Alexander Lantsov is a rapist. He knew fully well I was only sixteen, and I was faced with the prospect of losing my job, and I could not afford it.” A tear slipped down. “My mother depends on me to pay her medical bills and she has no other child to take of her. My father is long dead. I am all that she has left. If I could, I would have screamed and left the place, but I have no choice but to keep quiet. If he is only charged for attempted rape, he will be out in a few years and all this will be for nothing. I bring forth my testimony only because I cannot bear to see another suffer again. What we went through was hell, and I will not be silenced this time.” She held her head high and stepped down, and out of sight of the lawyers and the defendant, she ran to the other girls sitting down and buried her face in her hands. 

“The third testimony.” I stepped up, feeling already faint.

“My name is Alina Starkova.” I followed Genya’s example. “I serve as both witness and testimony. Evgenia Sergeyevna is one of my closest friends, and I cannot bear to see her troubled. She has broken down countless times and doubted herself every step and blamed herself and I refuse to condone that.” I glare at Alexander Lantsov. “Here, I am also a victim of his tendencies to assert his power over all others. It is only because I was fortunate enough to have a working camera and a companion to the fete that I had escaped. After this, I had suffered countless nightmares and nights of sleeplessness as well as aversion to human contact.”

“The third witness.” Aleksandr stepped up.

“My name is Aleksandr Morozov.” He began coldly. “On the night of the fete, I had acted as chauffeur to Alina Starkova as we were both requested to perform for Alexander Lantsov. During the night, I noticed that the crowd congratulating me did not hold Miss Starkova and a servant told me that she had seen her go out of the ballroom. I had my guesses about Alexander Alexandrovich, but I considered him an honorable man because of the way he treated many others. I saw and heard Miss Starkova’s struggles and Evgenia Sergeyevna was also present as well as David Fillipovich.” 

The Lantsov lawyer stayed silent. 

“Is there a need to call him?” He asked coldly, his eyes fixated on Lantsov’s now sunken ones. “Or I should hope the footage was proof enough.” 

“No.” The Lantsov lawyer bit his lip. “Your honor, as a son and Lantsov’s, may I please present evidence? Sentence is inevitable, but I would like present evidence for a lesser sentence. My father is somewhat mentally unstable. His father and mother were blood cousins, and I believe part of his childish instincts were at play due to this.” He paused, looking almost apologetic and unwilling. “He may be an abhorrent man, but remember that he is hardly an adult and should not be judged as one.”

Genya’s face went pale with shock. “He is hardly a child!” She yelled. “If he can run the Lantsov empire, he can manage his own urges.”

The lawyer looked guilty, far moreso than his father. “I am only speaking as a son would for a father.”

“He might not be your father.” Genya’s quiet statement sent a wave of shock and gossip through the audience. 

Yekaterina went paler, and clutched her handkerchief. 

“Silence.” The judge raised a hand. “Jury, you must make your decisions on facts and not emotion.”

The group huddled and discussed in terse whispers. 

“Members of the jury, have you reached a verdict?”

Finally, the spokesman stood up and gave with commanding tone, “Yes, your honor.” 

“Members of the jury, on the case of Lantsov v.s. Starkova, what is the verdict?”

“Your honor, we, the members of the jury find the defendant guilty.”

Yekaterina burst into sobs and Lantsov sunk a little lower. A smile of satisfaction swept across Genya’s face. 

“I agree with the jury on the verdict of guilt.” The judge enunciated each word with stern finality. “I will pass the sentence. For attempted rape, child rape, and rape I hereby sentence Alexander Alexandrovich Lantsov to thirty five years to life in prison.” The rest of Alexander’s life would be spent behind bars. Genya smiled in satisfaction. The girls behind us hugged one another and cried tears of joy.

Quietly, we all left, and Genya started to weep. 

“I can’t believe...” she sobbed on my shoulder, a difficult feat given her height, and hugged me. “Thank god the judge had eyes.”

“And ears.” I added drily. 

Aleksandr walked up to us. 

“I will make sure he stays behind bars.” He said quietly. 

“Thank you.” And in the spur of the moment, I hugged him. 

A look of surprise washed over him before he hugged me back. “There is no need for that.” He murmured. “I only did what was right.”

Within that second, Genya had disappeared again. 

“I still have to thank you.” I breathed. “I do not think I would have achieved the result on my own.”

He stayed silent, and instead took my left and held it. “Are you alright?”

“Better.” 

“Let me drive you home.” He said. I nodded in assent and followed him as his hand enveloped mine. 

“Thank you.” I said again. “What about the funding?”

“I have contracted several Fjerdan dukes.” He said. “They have promised me full artistic autonomy and a better sponsorship.” 

“Would the others object?”

“They can’t.” He said coldly, but his tone softened at my shock. “We have no one else.”

“Oh.” I could not think of anything else. 

The trial was over. Lantsov was behind bars. I should be happy, right? Something just felt wrong and I could not place a name to it. It was almost as if this was too easy, too simple, and the charges too solid. 

Was this another machination, something that was not quite real? The only person who could have orchestrated so much, was the man sitting next to me, his gray eyes gleaming a little gold in the sunset. 

Aleksandr. I laughed at that thought. 

“Why are you laughing?” He asked. 

“Me. Myself and I.” I smiled. 

“I seem to remember the same conversation.” His mouth quirked up into another half smile. Damn him and his looks. 

“Yes, I’m hilarious.” I pulled out my phone and played the recording of his early Mendelssohn concerto. He winced. 

“I would like you to take your previous words back.” A faint shadow appeared on his face. 

I laughed and he joined in. “It’s still good though.” I added hastily. “Very good.”

“I think I would know.” He turned his head back to the road. “Play that to Baghra and I’m sure she’ll be thrilled.”

“Nope.” I shook my head. “She’ll wack me for the distraction.”

“That sounds like her.” He laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooo
> 
> no death penalty because I checked a lot of law and the maximum sentence in Russia for something serious like death or under 14 is 20 years. That's not enough. In R&R Nikolai did state that he would have his father hang if no abdication came through, but that's a different country to the more modernized Ravka and nowadays most rapists do not face death row. 
> 
> And this causes Alina a lot of distress. Why do I always write slow burn? ARGHHHHHH I'm actually very frustrated right now. Hand holding is almost too much for her, but c'mon remember the winter fete scene? ARGHHHH


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me all you think of this

Sasha was a lonely boy. 

The only things his mother had ever said to him when she was coherent and the vodka ran out was something he dreaded.

“Play the concerto, movement one. Stop being flat.”

He always played dutifully as she had asked, but after a few bars, she’d stop him and shake her head and slam her cane on the floor.

He never understood why she loved the cane so much. Maybe it was because it was one of the few things she could be proud of, something her father had left her with. All that he had left her with. 

“If I wanted another son, I could have one. One more useful.” She would snarl. “Do you think of me as a fool? You have potential. I think you can do many things, but you wouldn’t. Stupid boy.”

He was never an affectionate Sanya or Sashenka. He was always just Sasha, the name an acquaintance would use, not the name a mother should have used. The conductor knew him as Sanya and would pet his head affectionately and teach him motions and rubato. 

When his mother wasn’t watching, he would practice those motions, lest she think he was being silly and distractive again. He tried time and time again to remind her that he was hardly older than thirteen, but she’d simply give him the violin again and tell him to play the concerto. 

In time, he grew sick of the notes, the opening B and broken octaves. In time, he tired of it all, and soon his playing was not flat on a pitch perspective, but from exhaustion, flat and unassuming yet sparkling with virtuosity. He compared his fingers with his mother’s sometimes, but they usually fell short. At least, he could play an easy tenth. 

His mother still shook her head, her tight updo always intact, posture wiry and eyes fierce. 

Was it wrong of him to wish for other things? Like a mother who could love him as mothers do in books? He knew not to believe in books. They always told the same pretty lies, the same idealized stories, but he knew far better. As far as he knew, he was the reason she could not hold her position anymore. The Ravkans and Shu tolerated adultery but frowned upon his illegitimacy. 

He had plenty of things to prove. With the thought, he picked up the instrument again, dull and worn and scratched from countless years of practice and sounds. How old was it? He was not the first person to own it, and he wouldn’t be the last. 

That night, he stepped on the stage, eyes cold, as the audience clapped and the voice called out his name, a name that didn’t seem to fully belong to him. 

The bow moved with the motions he asked of it, and his fingers landed in the right places. The tone shined and the high notes sparkled in the air, but he could feel nothing but the metal strings digging into the center of his fingers, yet he kept on playing each note with ever increasing passion, drowning out the orchestra, the tones coming from the worn violin otherworldly. 

At the end, he placed his bow at his side with a single flourish, and as the audience applauded and stood he looked at the boy in the screen. That was when he realized the screen hardly contained a boy. He wondered what had happened to Sanya, the boy who wished to be loved. At those thoughts, he felt nothing. 

Maybe he knew it all along, that he was nothing without his instrument, without the fingers and arm that gave him his fame and living, but it only numbed him from the realities. 

That night, he won, and he was not sure why. Yet people screamed and fainted while he stared on impassively, as the conductor shook his hand and another woman handed him the trophy. He didn’t blink as cameras flashed, although he knew that the flashing made for strange pictures. He wondered what his mother would think, and pushed the thought out of his mind. He could not afford to care about such trivial things now. 

The contracts came in, and he signed them, for the first time without his mother’s black eyes watching his every move. The little bit of freedom gave him a little thrill, and the argument that ensued he did not care. The words that would have his contempt went past him like nothing, and at the end, she relented, looking more than a little deflated.

He had won, for once. 

There was no one to celebrate the victory with. 

He picked up the instrument again, now much more tolerable without his mother looming over, and he played, not what he would compete with, but a song that he loved. 

He played a simple Ravkan lullaby, one that he imagined as a little boy that his mother would sing to him when he had finally done what she wanted. But what he did was never enough.

Some dreams were never meant to be. The last of his tears were shed for a boy who could not find the strength to face the truth. 

He would be enough, he decided that night, when his mother was sound asleep, another empty bottle next to her, the fearsome cane leaning against her chair. 

Baghra. He would call her Baghra, never mother. She was hardly a mother. And him? Hardly a son. 

Was he the product of revenge? Or the means to it? He hardly cared, but he would forge his own path, not the path someone else dictated.

There was much more that he had to do, and that revenge in itself. He looked at a smiling photo of his mother, a smile that he had never seen. The woman was his mother, the man he recognized faintly. It would take a while to place a name to the face, but he was up to the task. They held each other, and he could guess who the man was. His father. Maybe his mother had loved him, maybe not, but from the smile, maybe she had not always been so icy and distant. 

Maybe it was just him. The thought filled him with more anger than pain this time, and he quite liked the feeling. At least he was no longer weak, no longer a pawn. He would forge his own path, no matter the cost. The thought pushed him on, and he played more, each variation in his head forming itself in the cluster of notes, the octaves and trills and cadenzas floating gently out of the instrument, and it was not as if his mother would wake to find him practicing something other than what she had dictated. 

The next day he was called in as a duet partner. Sometime later he ran to the Conservatory, where no one knew who he really was, where his false names wouldn’t be caught, where he could be someone else, a figure, a musician, not the boy who longed for approval. He pushed that boy away as a wave of shame came over him.

That was not him. That would never be him again. 

The boy called Sasha, Sanya...all the child names, all the names that he had longed for, would never be here again. 

The last notes of the twenty fourth caprice rang out as his encore, and the crowd once again stomped the floor to smithereens, their hands clapping frantically. As a final treat, he offered his own variations on the fifth caprice, and by the end silence overtook the entire room. Then, the clapping resumed, louder than ever, shouts for him rang out and he found the strength to bow, to walk away silently, and to sit down in his dressing room, examining his bow positions. 

His name was Aleksandr Morozov now, and no one would ever guess anything else, not after they had heard the virtuoso play. 

But he knew also that fame could be dangerous, and in the cover of the night, he slipped away, back to the Conservatory, where he kept quiet until the news reached his classmates, who hung around him in both envy and admiration. He accepted the compliments quietly and dealt with their envies, opting to teach some of the more disagreeable ones his bowings and fingerings, but not without reason. His fingers were the ideal, and he had examined the other’s long ago, far before they had ever noticed him. 

Sometimes, silence was a virtue. It enabled him to know the others without speaking a single word, without betraying himself. 

He could stay Aleksandr Morozov, but he still cringed at the attempt to call him Sasha. 

At graduation, no one had any doubts of who would be graduating with honors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sasha and Sanya -> Diminutives of Aleksandr
> 
> Did someone catch that? Tell me :)
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this little special - I've been waiting for so long to write this!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, tell me what you think in comments.

Another flurry of texts awaits me. 

Sitting in the quiet of Kofye Tani, the ping of each text sends another dirty look my way. I shut the ringer off, but I was not quick enough.

Alina. Alexei, as it turned out, was still very much alive. Congrats on winning the court case against the fucking bastard.

That sounded much more like Alexei. 

Btw r u dating the Morozov guy? I saw photos ;) He had linked an article to the text. I clicked open it and on the very front was a picture of Aleksandr holding my hand, from months ago, before the fete, before everything. Lina Alina hahahaha I never thought your tastes were so peculiar...oops I mean the Morozov guy s. Well its time that you get the fuck over Mal and Zoya’s disappeared. Was she sick or something Im not a vocal expert. 

I laughed and cursed at Alexei’s much too childish demeanor. Maybe that was a consequence of having life easier than the rest. 

Zoya injured her voice during Norma. I’m not dating, and I don’t plan on doing so. The Morozov guy is not bad tho. I texted, knowing exactly the effect my words would have.

ALINA ADMITTED IT OMG Alexei texted back and the typing status disappeared. He was probably giggling like a maniac at this very moment. 

Lil bro, I’ll get you coffee but first you must explain you and Eva’s exact relationship. 

What the fuck are you talking about?

I’m joking ahaha

She’s horrible. And superstitious. 

I didn’t know that.

I did. You just never bothered to listen. 

I was busy making art. 

I was busy trying to be well rounded. 

You can’t be. Have you seen your elbows?

Ow. Well if you don’t mind, the Kofye Tani is always open and I’m usually there. 

You drink coffee? 

No, I drink tea. Like a true Ravkan babushka. 

Twenty six isn’t babushka. That’s ancient. 

Well see ya. If you don’t mind, I’m going to have to wait for the goddamn thing to cool down. 

Alright. I’m bored as hell anyway. 

Ten minutes later, Alexei saunters in, his hands covered in paint and glitter. 

“Is that red glitter?” I ask. “It’s disgusting.”

“Yeah. Can you believe they think Turandot needs that much red glitter? I can’t.” He groaned. “At least the set is pretty.”

“I’ll agree.” The Ludmilla-Yul-Bataar production was startlingly attractive and accurate. I heard that some of the lead designers were Shu, and Ludmilla Dubrova herself was half Shu. I guess red was the order. 

Well hey, at least the doors were pretty.“ He smiled proudly. 

“You my friend, the prime example of a pompous ass.” I stuck my tongue at him.

“I take that back. You’re not ancient.” He groaned. “Sometimes I forget you’re actually older.”

“I’m glad I’m such a young person at heart.” I stirred my tea. “Anything new after I left?”

“Not much.” He groaned. “Just all sorts of weird gossip. The usual.”

“Oh? What usual?”

“The usual someone’s with someone someone’s cheating someone’s this that” He shrugged. “We all get used to it.”

“Yes, we all do.” I said lightly, but I don’t think I was telling the truth. 

Did I ever? Drama was never my strong suit. I wasn’t usually capable of creating a very impressionable rumor, but I suppose other people were capable of dragging me in. I grimaced.

“Aw, don’t worry.” Alexei shrugged. “I’m very sure you will get a little more used to it. How’s Mal? Malaria? Malfeasance?”

“What have you been doing?”

“I was bored.” 

“He’s fine. Zoya’s less of a bitch. I might’ve taken some of the bitchiness from her.” 

“You might. I heard stories.” Alexei leaned back and laughed. 

I suppressed my laugh with a sip of tea. 

Walking home, I felt inexplicably, a lot better better and even a little cheerful. The shadow of the trial was long gone. I realized, I could actually get some peace. I pushed away the sense of shame and hopelessness and focused on the slight thaw, the song of lone birds, the way people seemed to congregate more outside, unafraid of the winter wind and falling snow. 

That reminded me. Chopin etude opus twenty five number something. I could hear the opening chords in my head, the falling, rhythmic pattern, but they were not the notes of a piano. They were the wails of a borrowed violin, the resonant notes played by a pair of pale hands with long, elegant fingers. The hands of a master, hands that endured countless hours of pressing the same strings over and over. 

Why did that thought fill me with such unease and longing? Was it because I was unaccustomed to feeling that way towards anyone but Mal, or was it a woman’s sixth sense? I think I knew to trust a woman’s sixth sense. 

Still, that thought gave me a small thrill. It was a welcome distraction anyway, and I had learned to push away thoughts that I didn’t want. 

Home rang a little bell for me, even though I knew far better than anyone else. 

An orphan has no home. 

Maybe I was over Mal? The thought of him with Zoya as soon as I saw an empty room didn’t give the same disgust or pain as before. In fact, Zoya wasn’t so bad, or nearly as bad as I had thought. 

I skipped back home simply because it reminded me of being a child, being allowed weakness and pride. Score study was less tedious for no apparent reason and I fell asleep easily. 

I had woken up with no dark circles, something I’d consider an achievement of a sort, and I headed over to Baghra’s extra early. A little more confidence came to me and I felt ready to deal with whatever scathing criticism and abuse she could manage to hurl my way. 

Her hut was hardly warm, and instead I found her sitting at her chair, her hands trembling with a piece of newspaper in them. The way her face had sunk aged her by at least ten years. 

“Girl! What have you done?” A sense of panic gripped me as I heard the real fear in her voice. 

“What are you talking about?” I asked. “If it is trovatore, please give Morozov my humbles condolences and all will be well.”

“You helped him.” She said, almost accusingly. “How stupid are you?”

“I might be stupid.” I retorted. “But I know what I am doing.”

“You don’t!” She cried out again, and shoved the paper in my hands. “Look.”

The article was from some time ago, littered with photos of my Butterfly, Genya’s side profile in court, and Aleksandr’s cool face. At the very top was a photo of Lantsov in his prison garb. 

“I know what that is.”

“You don’t know him.” And I was surprised by the conviction in her voice. She stood up, hobbled over to a shelf, and pulled out an old violin, worn and faded. Her fingers curled onto the neck in a way that sent a dizzy wave of sickness through me. The length, the elegance, the shape...

“Who are you?” I managed. 

“Who do you think I am?” She chuckled, her voice raspy and rough. “What does it look like? Look at me, girl.”

I did exactly as she asked me. “You taught him.”

“And?”

“You mothered him.”

“Ah, so she is much less stupid than she looks.” She cackled again. “You are correct for the only time in your life. Pity that it took you so long to see what was in front of you all this time.”

“Then what are you trying to say?”

“I am saying,” she gulped a glass of some strange liquid, “that you better leave. Greed knows no end.”

“Listen,” I stepped over. “I don’t know what you’re trying to imply.”

“I take back what I said earlier.” Her face twisted into something more imposing and frightening than her contempt. Her pity. “You are the stupidest thing I’ve ever met.”

“Then tell me if I am so stupid.” I snapped. 

“The fire is back.” She scoffed. “Too unsteady. I always said his eyes had their problems.”

“Who’s eyes?” I asked, even though I knew the answer.

“Sasha’s.” She sighed. “He is good, too good, at picking out his pawns.”

I felt a little bit of me break at this revelation. She had her reasons to lie, but building up such a lie? Impossible. 

“Then, tell me.” I dug my fingernails into my palm, willing myself to forget all that I had felt. 

“He can send...” she paused. “I never thought he could be so cruel. I thought his ambitions had limits.”

“Well if you treated him the way you treated me I’m not surprised.” I crossed my arms. 

“Girl, do you think of yourself as special?” Her gaze fixated on me. “Answer.”

“No.” I admitted, and I knew it was the truth. 

“No, and you are right.” The pity hurt far more than her barbs, and I could not look away as her features softened in what could only be sympathy. “Sasha’s nature is my fault.” Her voice was still cold, but I detected a hint of regret, a distant sadness that I could not ignore. “And he used you. I did not realize how far he could go.”

“So you’re a mother but hardly one?” I asked. 

“Yes, the way you put it.” She poured herself another glass of the liquid, and I saw the label briefly. Vodka. Maybe that was why she was never a singer despite her obvious capabilities. “I don’t want him beyond saving. I want him to realize what he has done, and I am begging you to help me.” Her voice never wavered but there was a small shift, a shift that sent chills down my spine. 

“What do I do?” 

“Run.” She shook her head sadly. “I know I ask too much. Girl, do you think you can face him when it was him who caused every last scar?”

I felt my blood run cold. “Specifics.”

“Remember the dress at the fete?” She chuckled bitterly. “I only needed the one photo, but it was too late. He had set you up so that he could get rid of Alexander.”

“He-what?” I felt another part of me being torn apart, the pain raw and stinging. 

“And before that? He knew exactly what he was doing.” Again, her sad laugh rang out. “I’ve taught him everything that he knows, except his greed, and I know what he is playing at.”

I should have ran from that hut and left and dismissed those things. I should have found comfort in lies, but I found myself stumbling through thorns, tearing gashes in every imaginable part, leaving the ugliness in the light. 

“I wish I could say he knows how to love.” She smiled in a sad way, wrinkles that I had never known existed forming themselves at the edges of her eyes. “But I can’t lie anymore. I don’t have to keep his secrets anymore.”

“What would he do to you?” I asked.

“He’s already gotten all that he wants.” She shook her head. “He is conductor and unquestionable. We will see where his pride takes me, girl.” Another glass of vodka went down. How was she not even drunk? “And the Genya girl? Don’t trust her. She’s been selling your secrets.” 

“Baghra?”

“Enough.” She waved me off. “Now get out.”

I considered many things that day, but I did what she had asked of me all along. 

I ran off. I dug my fingers into my palms, then my wrist, then the nape of my neck, willing the sting to lessen, willing the physical pain to distract me from what was going on inside. I felt betrayed, and I didn’t know why. Or maybe I did, but I didn’t want to face any of it.

David. Genya. Aleksandr. What was real and what was a lie? 

In my room, I lay on my side with my phone turned off, and I let tears flow down onto the worn comforter and felt more than a little sad. Who was Genya, really? Had she ever been my friend? Was she? Or was it just the information she needed to buy her own freedom? 

David. He wouldn’t have known if he had been used. If he could be oblivious to what was in front of him, I doubt that he had the energy or focus to dissect others’ motives. 

And Aleksandr. I felt the worst kind of sadness heap itself in a sickening fashion, almost mocking. I hated what I had felt and most of all how real it all was. A surge of anger washed through me. What exactly had he been trying to achieve? And what was with his mother’s concern about his actions? As far as we all knew, Lantsov was a rapist and a criminal, and yet Baghra almost cared about his wellbeing. Something didn’t add up, and I was sure Baghra wouldn’t offer me the answers I wanted. Like her son, she kept a tight lip and only let me on regarding some things. 

At least, she was telling the truth. Another wave of sadness lapped at me, dragging me from a desperate hold on a sense of normalcy. Another tear fell, this one for someone I had once been. 

I should not have longed for things that did not belong to be. And they would never, and I knew that better than anyone else did. 

An orphan has no home. But that wasn’t the only thing we couldn’t possess, was it?

Run? It all seemed a little drastic. Maybe I would fare better elsewhere. I didn’t always have to sing. There were many, many things that I could do, but I missed the happiness that came with the thought of Genya, her red hair curling like licks of flame, her golden eyes shining as she told another tale with perfect expression. How good of an actress could she be? She could bring voices and her hands to life right before my eyes, and she could probably act like my friend, long enough to gain my secrets. 

Those little suspicious things came back. Why of all people was Aleksandr close to Genya? Why of all things did she tell him so many, when she should have trusted much less? 

Baghra was right. I was stupid, more stupid than I had looked. I guess I paid the price. The fees that I had left would last me long enough, and I didn’t want Os Alta anymore, not when laid bare and trampled on were all of my dreams, and the girl that had smiled and confided in one too many people she should never had trusted. 

I left Mal and small note and then I left, closing the door without a key in my hand. Os Alta, the city of dreams. Os Alta, the breaker of dreams. 

Still, I didn’t quite understand what I was feeling, but from Baghra’s feverish pleads, I doubt that I knew everything. He had lied to me, used me, and planted spies around me. That was enough to warrant my leave. 

I could only hope the understudy was familiar with Leonora and Butterfly. The notes were a lie, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh no. Look what I did OwO


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Genya POV!

My name is Evgenia Sergeyevna and I just betrayed my only friend. I wrote slowly, feeling the pain settle as each word landed on paper. 

If I wrote them quicker, would the pain pass or would it kill me? 

I flip through texts, and instead of laughs, I get muffled sobs that belong to me. This house is empty, emptier than it had been before Alina.

Before that, a long time ago, I was another girl. I was a favored one. 

All those years had simply been a blur, a blur of paints and shadows and notes, but in the end, it all came together. I could dress and paint Yekaterina like no other, and she adored me for it. In the past, she wouldn’t let anyone touch her face except for me. She used to like seeing me in the mornings, when I’d arrive with my kit, the box larger than my torso, and she’d bend down to embrace me and coo at my curls and chubby cheeks. It seemed that everything she had loved about me was gone except my hands, and those were not enough to satisfy her anymore. She tired of me, or so I thought. I tried my hand at appeasing her, reciting poetry, discussing novels, and crafting glass combs. None of it worked. 

Yekaterina in those days fed me on syrup and dates and expensive treats that she herself had. Even if I was not quite her equal, I was treated as such, even if I were a little girl with hardly parents to call family and nothing to call my own except a name. Those days were better, better than anything else I could remember. I wish I could say I hated being a pet, but being Yekaterina’s pet was not something I’d hate. 

Then it all disappeared. Days passed and it was harder to coax her smiles, to bring her joy, and even my skill was not enough. I didn’t know what I was doing wrong for a long, long time. The realization that she was growing old and unattractive and that her husband’s mistresses had doubled in number meant almost nothing to me, a girl of hardly twelve. 

The first time it happened, I had given Alexander Lantsov a huge welt across his cheek. Even if I got scolded and my pay cut, I was very proud of it. At least I was less helpless than most of us had thought, and I earned for myself a little bit of respect amongst us who scurry in the hall and stay unnoticed. 

The proudness did not last. Guilt, shame, and horror swept in one by one. Nightmares, terrors, and flashbacks. I was a girl of what, fifteen? Sixteen? I didn’t know what courage I found, but I went to Morozov and explained everything, but not before shedding all the hidden tears.

I could not afford to be weak, except under that circumstance. 

That day I was no longer a scared girl. I was a weapon, and I didn’t care. It reminded me that I had power, that Alexander was not the only one, and one day I would wait and send him to some saintsforsaken place where he would never have the chance to harm anyone else again.

Not me. Not the other girls. Not Alina. 

I did it. I did it by betraying Alina first. 

Maybe it was Aleksandr’s fault that the idea came forth, but without me it would have never worked. He needed someone to understand her, and he was simply not adept and much more suspicious than she was. He needed someone with less power, someone who had no reason to do the things he did. 

“Alina’s the only friend I’ve had in a long time.” I admitted. 

“You do care about her.” He commented. 

“I like her well enough.” I shrugged. 

“What are you asking?”

“When this is all over,” I looked for the words, but they never came quite right.

“You want to know if she’ll forgive you.” He stated calmly.

“Maybe.” I twisted my hands. 

“She won’t.”

Maybe he’s right, but what choice do I have? I still want that little piece of hope, although it has never done me any good. 

“You don’t have to go through with it.” He offered me the surveillance device. “Give this to David,” and then he handed me a heavy bag. “Tell Alina to wear these.” A bleak look reached his eyes. “It’s your decision.”

I took them, and it felt all wrong. The price Alina would pay weighed nothing. 

I did all that I had to. I handed the camera to David without comment and laced Alina in to the dress myself. It is well made, and she was absolutely stunning. The bet was on. If Aleksandr could be moved by what I had created, maybe there was still hope yet. 

Alina is a pretty girl, only that she refuses to see it. Part of me wants to hit her on the head to right her mind, but now isn’t the time, and such methods wouldn’t be particularly humane. 

My name is Evgenia Sergeyevna and I hate Alexander Lantsov. I look back to the earlier entries, and I laugh, but I don’t feel happy. Instead, I feel hollowness spreading, as if my insides were being eaten away until I was nothing but a shell. 

This victory hardly felt good. Alina was gone, and Baghra too. I suspected that Baghra guessed many of the things that Aleksandr had attempted, and she was his mother after all. He might have hid the details from others, but there was no use hiding it from me. He hardly liked his mother, but she was good teacher all the same. 

Alina, forgive me. I pleaded silently during prayers. There was no use for such things, and she could not have heard it anyways, but I wish she could. It’s a way of saying the apologies that I would never have a chance to say ever again. It takes too long for the realities to sink in, to realize that what I had done was neither forgivable or forgotten, but I was not planning on giving up on bringing justice either. What was the meaning of all this? Was this even justice when we had all hurt Alina for our own agendas? I decided that I didn’t want to know. 

My name is Genya Safin and I am your stylist. Was I, or was I more than just that? I was a spy, a weapon, a stylist, a girl, a woman...who am I, really?

Right now I could wallow in the anger, in the shame, in all those things that coursed through me like a storm, ready to unleash devastation on my entire being. 

I thought back to the first day, of the meal at the bistro. I respected Alina for her actual commitment to her voice, to refuse, for her bravery. 

I had not the bravery to refuse Lantsov’s threats. I didn’t want to be called a whore or lose my living, and so I endured it all, nearly twenty years of Yekaterina’s side eye, Lantsov’s comments, and the tears that I swallowed because they never did me any good. When they say a pretty girl’s crying can touch many people, it doesn’t work for two who have seen countless pretty girls cry. 

The reminder quells the storm regarding Alina. At least, she never suffered as much. At least, she had Aleksandr on her side, but judging from her disappearance, I doubt that she wanted him by her side either. 

Starkova. I doodled her name and felt something strange. Why of all people did Aleksandr choose her? He must have know what it was like to feel unloved, and he knew what betrayal was. If he did, it made no sense that he could easily do those things to Alina without blinking. 

Alina. I thought of her pale face, the tears that she and I had shared, and the hollow feeling came back. Maybe even in another twenty years, I would never forget that I had made her feel exactly like what Malyen Oretsev had. I did not want to be the villain, but maybe I was all along. After all, where would these plans be without me?

It wasn’t my place to give those warnings either. Maybe that was the only redeemable aspect of the entire debacle, that I did what I thought was right, but only once or twice. Still, that doesn’t excuse anything, and I never had a chance to apologize. I don’t know what an apology should sound like either – I’ve never had enough power to apologize. All that my actions warrant are reprimands.

In a way, it was depressing, but I guess that let me whatever pride I wanted. It was not like pride would make a difference. 

I flicked on the radio. Sometimes, distractions were necessary, like the Ornamental Blade, or as I call it. David prefers vegetable alkaloid. 

“Alina Starkova in Madama Butterfly as Cio Cio-san, her debut with the Ravkan Opera. Tonight we have Alina Starkova singing ‘un bel di’.” Alina’s voice was as I remembered it, same in life as on recording. A few tears pricked at my eyes. 

I did miss her. 

“Sergei Beznikov in Cavalleria Rusticana as Turiddu, singing the aria ‘Un bacio, mamma! Un altro bacio!—Addio!’”. 

What had I done? Was it all manipulation or was it what I had wanted all along? Who could have foreseen that one day she would have become so important?

The only other time I had been shook was during preparation for Yekaterina. That night I was to accompany her, still somewhat favored, but much less a child. I had darkened her lashes, painted away her wrinkles, and smoothed out her skin until she looked like a doll. Or some painting of some woman long dead. 

For that night, I had made sure to make myself less prominent, to not draw her wrath upon my hands again, but it would have worked better if I had simply made myself ugly. Except that ugly was something I couldn’t live with. My hair was up in a simple plait and my dress was plain cream, falling in a column all the way to my feet. 

“A lack of gratitude is unbecoming of you.” She had said, her eyes cold as I adjusted the collar of her gown. “You should wear the jewels my husband gives you.” She pointed at my neck and then my wrist. 

If I felt anything less than resentment after that, it was simply not possible. I felt most of my world shattering as I realized what she had known all along, maybe even from the first day she saw me. I had cared for her, and she hardly did for me. I was just another expensive tool she bought to satisfy her vanity. 

And it was her husband’s sin. But she put it on my name all the same. 

No one would notice if I were gone, I had thought, so before anything started I had ran to home. I phoned Aleksandr before I knew what I was doing. 

He had answered. I was prepared for some grandiose speech or promise, but instead I sobbed into the phone. 

“Did you know that he would not have inherited had his brother not died?” He asked. “He is a stupid man, a child even.”

“I don’t know.” 

“You don’t have to bear it. I can get you another job at the Ravkan opera without his intervention, and it would only be my fault that Yekaterina no longer has a stylist.” He paused. “But if you stay, I promise you that in time you will have him at your mercy.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Think on it.” He said softly. “It’s your life.”

That night I had stayed up and evaluated his health. 

The good thing regarding my skills was that I had studied makeup, and those components were good for other purposes, purposes that were ugly and cruel. Yekaterina insisted on the best and monitored the contents of her products obsessively. Those contents as I had learnt had more uses, especially if applied directly. 

My name is still Evgenia and my choices have not changed anything, except that I will hardly be Genya. I am Genya to David but he hardly speaks. I am Genya to Alina whom I have lost. I am Genya to Aleksandr who has no use for such a name. 

The times after that I got ahold of Lantsov’s schedule from someone close to him. I used beauty as my weapon only that one time. After that, I figured out exactly where he would be at any given moment, and if he were near our quarters I would take the antidote and apply the liquid to my lips and fingers. 

How many years had it been? More than ten. If I were right with my dose, he would enter a state of agony soon, or even now. The thought always brought a satisfied smile, and yes, I would have him at my mercy. 

Remember, roses have thorns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh...
> 
> I read the tailor 20x during writing...
> 
> School has started. Updates are going to be a little slower, so bear with me. Once again, tell me what you think in comments!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> O *beep*

I should not have sung. I should have been much more cautious, but it was too hard to resist. 

To hide away, I had dyed my hair red, unlike Genya’s flaming red, but softer and more muted. Enough to make my skin appear differently and the shape of my face looked somewhat less hollow. I ran all the way to Tsibeya and I did not know why. Maybe it was because of my softness for the people there or the orphanage there. 

Life was almost normal when I taught the children, mischievous and energetic but inquisitive and hungry. It was not difficult to laugh and sometimes I could find myself forgetting. Almost as if the past few months had been another dream. 

I wondered what Mal thought. 

A regiment of soldiers walked by. Ravka was not at war, but we were prepared for war anyways. Anyone who studied two seconds of history should’ve been able to find the reason, but I still found myself scoffing at the loud and boisterous behavior and the occasional drunk. I made a point of avoiding those. 

Tsibeya was cold, and the children had hardly anything that could keep their hands warm. We all huddled around the fireplace on the worst days and I sang, only because the children were too young to realize many things and they would forget soon enough. I was wrong though. 

There was a young soldier called Sturmhond, and he also befriended one of the children. It turned out that he was basically an older brother to many of them, but I hardly noticed. I think after a while the cold was bearable, but I simply did not have the effort to make observations while trying not to die of hypothermia. 

Naturally, they told. Sturmhond heard as well, and I think I spotted recognition. But how many recordings could he have heard? The one broadcast couldn’t cement my identity, and the way I acted no one would even suspect an opera diva. At least I hoped so. Few knew that I was an orphan myself, unwanted and unloved for the most of my life. 

There was also another girl who floated around the town. She was Fjerdan but she looked more Ravkan than Fjerdan with gray tinged skin, black hair, and blacker eyes. Her name Ursula Jonasdoetter and she was also a singer and music teacher. We got along well enough, and she didn’t have too many words either way, preferring to hum folk tunes and writing her songs. 

I had been taught composition and theory at the Conservatory, but I don’t think anything I’ve written could compare to Ulla’s tunes. She could improvise, compose and modulate freely, and there was a lack of restriction on the way she used her voice – no sound was useless or unwelcome. She knew how to make things sound good even if they shouldn’t, and I found plenty of respect for her. 

Little by little, we bonded. She talked about a girl named Signy. I talked about a woman called Evgenia. Neither of us had to know too much – it was better that we lived in separate worlds, and maybe after all of this, our paths would never meet again. Fate always has other plans. 

I was unnerved as I saw reports of Aleksandr Morozov’s tour north, and to this very town. I hid in my room, willing myself to disappear, and perhaps that would’ve been for the best. 

I also learned many other things when he had found me that day. I might’ve refused to speak to him, but that never stopped him from speaking, and informing me that Ursula was his sister, and Ulla as I had called her should’ve been Ursula Morozova. Half siblings. Baghra’s musical talents clearly ran through both of them. 

And I should have known that he would not leave me in peace. “You might leave,” he had said, “but you can’t take everything with you.”

“Oh? And?” I felt panic rising up, but I steadied myself. Those were the first words that I had spoken to him in a very long time. “So you want to be like Lantsov? You are no better than him.”

At the comparison, I found the first hint of emotion in his eyes, a bleak type of anger, but there was more. There was fear. What had he to be afraid of? “All I am asking is that you return for the Ravkan Opera.” I could see the hint of tension in his voice, a way that he controlled his actions when he felt more than he had showed. 

“And why should I associate myself with you?” I laughed bitterly. “Who are you, even? Remember what you have done.”

“Baghra whispers a few accusations in your ear, and off you go.” He steps closer until he is less than an arm’s length away. Much less. “You sought no explanation. Who am I to you? How good is your judge of character?”

His words strike a chord in me somewhere. Baghra was his mother, but could she be mistaken? “Your actions speak plenty.” I stare at him. “But fine, explain yourself.”

“Somewhere else?” He asked, as we realized that there were plenty of others around us. I nodded. 

I had my misgivings about Morozov, but I still trusted him somewhat. He wasn’t Lantsov, and I knew that. I settled on the couch of his room in the inn. 

“Lantsov was my father.” He said quietly. “He also abandoned my mother to marry Yekaterina for alliances.”

“I can’t see it.” I examined his features. If Lantsov were truly his father, then it wasn’t too believable. 

“I am sorry, Alina.” He said, suddenly. “I should not have done many things that I had.”

“Oh, now you’re sorry? What about Genya?” I felt some fire coming over me. Why was it that his manipulations hurt the most?

“She does not deserve your anger.” He said harshly. 

“I never gave her that.”

“It does not look like it.” He downed a glass of sbiten.

Maybe he was right, but I knew I could never blame Genya. She had enough of her own problems as it was. “She had no choice.”

“Everyone has a choice.” He offered me a glass of the same sbiten. I shook my head. “I imagine you have a great deal to say.”

“I might start cursing and I don’t think it’s a good idea.” I glared at him. “And thanks to you pretending to be smart, I’m having an existential crisis. And what was that about me not bringing everything?”

“Your friend’s job,” He emphasized the word ‘friend’, “is optional. I can afford to keep his job, or I can’t.”

“You can’t do that.”

“I inherited my father’s company,” He almost smiled, “Vasily has no choice in this.”

“And what you said about choices?”

“I take that back. He’s not in this.” His fingers tightened around his glass. “Fine,” He placed it down with a resounding thump. “Make me your villain.”

I did the cowardly thing and I ran before anyone could realize. 

What was wrong with me? He was the one using me, and yet I was afraid of him, almost as if I was afraid of his judgment. Stupid, stupid. 

I did not want to look at Ulla again, but I doubt she knew much. It was more likely that she wrote to her brother about someone, someone who matched exactly the girl he was looking for, and that was far too suspicious. His guise was clever, but the first thing I did was to research on whatever inheritance and legitimacy drama there was. I suspected that it was hush money, as the Lantsov name could not possibly bear much more scandal than it already had. 

But the next day, I packed my bags to Os Alta. I would leave in one week. Some of the children cried. 

I promised them that I would come back every summer and there would always be Ulla, and it seemed to calm them a little. It was nice hearing them chant my name, but it wasn’t my name at all. It was the name that I had conveniently found. 

Before I left, I got rid of the red dye. Genya would find it atrocious, and I did not feel like having her murder whatever precious hair I had left. The day I left it was as white as the snow falling outside in Tsibeya. My hair was wrapped in a hood and scarf, but it was obvious what I had done and I avoided the gaze of many people. 

It’s funny how on the stage I am not afraid of prominence, but here the stares make me uncomfortable and cause me to turn red. Maybe it was because I could never quite see beyond the front row in the opera house.

Mal, I thought, I hope everything is alright. 

Truthfully, I doubt that Aleksandr would do much because he needed the leverage now, but who knew? I was not familiar with tactics and politics, and he seemed to have a knack for them. I was no match in that respect, and the best I could do was to guard myself. 

Beyond Tsibeya, spring had come, and the air was almost sickly sweet, the sun beating down upon the cities. The coach of the train was cool, but I felt the light burning on my skin, the relentless weather, and I knew we were almost there. I wished for the cold and chill of Tsibeya, because there I felt free, free from all the complications of the past few months. Nothing ever goes quite right. 

Returning to my apartment, I found myself hugging Mal and restraining tears. He didn’t ask much, and I suspected that he at least knew part of the story. We didn’t talk about it, and there was not much to fill the silence with. 

“How’s Zoya?” I asked.

“She’s better I guess,” his eyes lit up at the mention of her name, and I suppressed another pang. Another reminder of what I had missed, signals and signs that I should have taken in a long time ago. “I think she will sing in the next season.”

“Wonderful.” I commented, “The role?”

“Uh,” he looked sheepish, “I can’t pronounce it. Some Myusatta?”

“Musetta!” I exclaimed “La Boheme is it?”

“Yes!” His eyes lit up. “It’s the opening night. You were billed as Mimi, but I was worried. ”

“I am singing Mimi,” I declared. “Of course I am.”

“I got a box.” Mal smirked. “Zoya lent me her spot in the company box.”

“Wow. Let me guess, she has the best one?”

“Yup.” He nodded happily. “She definitely has the attitude.” We laughed and talked some more about Zoya’s insistence on the best, her habits, and Genya and Zoya, but I noticed it was harder for him to laugh when we talked about her insistence. 

“What’s wrong?”

“With what?”

“You sound stressed about Zoya.” I said. 

“It’s a little hard for me to keep up with her.” He admitted. “She’s not very fond of being cheap apparently.”

“Well apparently they aren’t paying you enough considering the number of jobs you took on.” I deadpanned. “I’ll talk to Aleksandr about it.”

At the mention of Aleksandr, an icy anger radiated from his eyes. “Sure.” He mumbled, and stood up. 

“What is wrong with you?” I muttered under my breath. 

What was wrong with all the people in my life, including myself?

I turned my phone back on for the first time, and I found a flurry of texts from everyone. I decided that it would be too exhausting to read all of them, and simply turned it off again. Mal’s reaction played through my mind again and again and I wondered what exactly had changed during the time that I was gone. I needed answers, but there was no one to give me any. 

Sleep was a luxury, and I couldn’t. There was too much going on, and Baghra had refused to see me ever since my return. 

Was she disappointed? I could imagine it. I had not succeeded in what she asked of me. 

It was not wise to disappoint.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well..how was that? Sturmhond and Ulla! Yay! Tell me in comments what you thought :)


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG yes

“Sasha,” She chuckled. “What is it that you feel for her?”

He didn’t respond. 

“I imagine you are pleased to have her back,” she taunted, “even if you became your father.”

“I am not him,” he snarled, “madraya.”

“But you are, to an extent,” She emptied another glass of vodka, “We all are. Talk of your methods.” Another bitter chuckle escaped her mouth. “You are becoming a monster.”

“You made me a monster.” The anger was gone from his face. There was the coldness that she had feared for so long. 

“You really don’t know responsibility, do you?” She rasped. “There are too many things I regret.” A wide chasm opened in her eyes, filled with loneliness and regret, and he felt a chill despite the heat of the room. “One, telling you of your father. Two, bringing you up so. Three, training her.” Baghra spat the words and downed another glass. Aleksandr didn’t know if drink would help his situation, but it always seemed to make his mother a little better for the time being. 

“Four,” he smiled. “Telling her to run.”

“You remind me of a snake.” She scoffed. “How could I have birthed a snake?”

“You are no less a snake than I am.” He placed the glass down. “I will leave you in peace, madraya.”

“Sasha,” Baghra shook her head. 

“Madraya.” He did not look back as he stepped out. 

“Close the door.” She snapped. “You’re letting the heat out.”

Aleksandr chuckled drily. Selfishness was a trait that ran in the family, he supposed. It wasn’t all bad either.

Except for Alina. He had not felt that way in a long time. Was it regret? He didn’t not quite know regret either. The feeling was too strange. 

If she had the chance, she probably would have murdered him, and he probably deserved it. He was not about to let that happen. Still, her angered gaze was unsettling to say at the very least, a contrast from the hardly concealed admiration merely a month prior. 

He found that he preferred admiration. And holding her hand, small and thin but warm. He was finding it difficult sometimes to keep warm as well, another trait that ran in the family. He was always too much like his mother. It offered certain advantages and being the son of a Lantsov without looking like one was good, but he did not want to be the person his mother was. 

Did he miss Alina? That was a question Aleksandr would rather never think about. It was another can of worms that he wasn’t keen on opening, and especially with the delicate situation at hand, he was not sure how badly that would destroy his chances. 

Just being conductor was not enough. He needed the hype, the fame, and the excitement from a famed soprano, and he had cultivated exactly that for Alina, enough to cause a scandal to remove Lantsov and replace Nazyalenskaya. He knew what he was doing when he goaded her into Norma, and that was exciting and controversial, two essential elements of publicity. The mysterious disappearance also generated more speculation, and it kept the Ravkan opera on the tongues of the people, the money flowing in steadily.

No, he would not take to losses. He had confidence, and more than one backup plan. It was the matter of getting Alina to cooperate. Faint lines formed between his brows when he thought of it. There was not much explaining he could do either. 

The opera house needed her, and she needed to comply, and it was all a delicate balance that only needed one little accident to tip it out of balance. 

Maybe he hated Lantsov and his lack of taste, but things were certainly easier. Lantsov picked the singers, and it was never his money on the line. With Lantsov gone, the satisfaction wouldn’t run the opera house, although things went a little more smoothly with many of the female crew rejoicing. The gifts would come in steadily for both him and Brekker, for their part in Lantsov’s downfall. With luck, he would remain behind bars for the rest of his life. 

Aleksandr did not bother taunting his father with the knowledge of his parentage, but he was sure Vasily, with his open mouth and lack of thought, would have babbled it to Yekaterina or sobachka or Lantsov, or all of them. Yekaterina would certainly be curious to exactly where Vasily’s shares and fortune had gone, and she would have known it wasn’t his horses. 

He had no more novelty left to offer. Ulla hated Os Alta, hated cities, and hated having to speak to others for too long. The accident had not been easy on her. She sang but it was it, the only thing she had left, a shadow of what she once possessed. He cursed the Signy and Roffe that she mentioned for depriving him of another path out. 

Was it wrong for him to consider all as tools, cogs in his plans that would set it in motion? There was nothing wrong with most of it. 

Perhaps he still owed Alina a full and extensive apology. Perhaps she owed him an explanation on what exactly Baghra had said. Perhaps they both hid too many secrets, but for now, his goal was to stay alive and die not at her hands, those hands that he had held and never wanted to let go of, a pianists hands, but not quite. 

His thoughts flew to the moment after the trial, when she had lept up to him and wrapped her arms around him. He was surprised, not because of her actions, but of how he had felt. He didn’t mind it, and that was an understatement. He liked the feeling of her arms around his torso, the slight squeeze, and even the way her hair tickled his hands, glossy bronze against pale marble. It was never a bad feeling, 

He wondered what silver hair would be like, her new choice of disguise. 

The boy named Sasha should have been long gone. He should not have come up, or even dared to make a sound, but he still did, and Aleksandr felt a tinge of regret. He knew what it was even without feeling it before. 

“Alina,” he breathed. “What is it you want from me?” He didn’t care who heard him when there was no one to hear him.

A long time ago he had padded his rooms so that late night practice at Baghra’s insistence or his compulsion to finish a piece did not warrant complaints from his neighbors. Tonight they would serve their purpose again. 

The violin was amongst one of the items that he had taken from Vasily. It was his and borrowed no longer. The glossy wood of the Guadagnini shone in the faint yellow light, and he could see a shadow of his reflection. 

It was nothing like Vasily and he liked that well enough. Being a bastard had advantages. At the very least, he could use it to press an advantage, and looking nothing like either the puppy or Vasily or Lantsov himself. The only thing he really needed was the test and a threat and all of a sudden Vasily had cowered. He was not fit to inherit, Aleksandr had thought, and just seeing the reaction was enough. Lantsov had raised his children well, well in Aleskandr’s favor. 

Baghra had told him to practice the concerto again, Mendelssohn’s E minor concerto. That was one piece that he hated because nothing was ever enough for her, although he did realize that she had her reasons. Still, it was a reminder of Sasha, of the pain the boy had gone through, and he refused to ever become that boy again. Weakness was a flaw and he was much against that, but still, he could not avoid flaws entirely. Although, he mused, flaws were subjective. 

Such was Baghra’s admonishment of his habits, his calculations and manipulations. He saw it as survival. She saw it as excessive and even frivolous. He would have called her out for her manipulations but the cane stopped him. Less confrontation when there was too much tension would be a smart move. 

The preference would be less contact, but she was too skilled to lose. In the end, he had convinced her to take students for her own livelihood. Maybe she saw through his manipulations – a mother knew her son best – but whatever reason, she bought in what he had said. 

Or he had taken advantage of her idleness, and to be idle...Baghra was not one who could take it calmly, even if she was set for life and did not ask for much else. She might have saw reason through the images he had carefully cultivated, but how much he had hid from her she probably knew. 

It was the time to take his mind off things. He tightened his bow with a few twists, placing it up at eye level to check the angle. When that was finished to a standard that Baghra wouldn’t wince at, and he opened his score. The space below the title was covered in scrawls that made him cringe. Sasha never remembered to erase all the markings Baghra had made, and Baghra’s opinion was that advice at the beginning still applied at the end. 

Her words were hardly advice. 

To Aleksandr, the Guadagnini sounded different now that it truly belonged to him, and was it just being free with his sound, now that he would never have to part with it? There was danger in getting even remotely attached. He had Baghra to thank for the fear. 

This day, even playing his instrument was not doing much good. He thought of playing the twenty fourth caprice for Alina, and his fingers already moved in position for the theme. She had said he was the best she had ever heard, and knowing her, it wouldn’t be a lie. That girl couldn’t lie to save her life. 

He was never wrong about people, and neither was Baghra. Both of them had uncanny gifts for reading people. But just because Alina was an open book didn’t mean that she wasn’t wise. She understood, which was far more important than anything else. 

Since when had he allowed himself to be distracted? He returned to his piece again, careful to phrase and lift his bow the way he had been taught, his fingers pressing the strings, and he allowed the bow to guide itself, adjusting to the weight at the frog and tip. Those motions felt almost like second nature. He paused to think. How long had he been playing? 

As far as he could remember, he supposed. His earliest memory was a tiny violin next to Baghra’s larger one, and then growing and Baghra’s unamused snort as she finally conceded to getting him another when it was clearly too small for him. They had never had enough money. Baghra had only began working as a teacher and during times of economic difficulty, no one needed lessons when they needed bread more. 

The boy in him felt pain. Those days, Baghra had trouble keeping sober. And one of those days a long time later, when he was fifteen or sixteen, he had found his mother’s diary and photos. He recognized Lantsov and when she was drunk, he had questioned her regarding the cryptic entries and the man in the pictures. 

Aleksandr would not have believed it until he had evidence, and Baghra did. She had tests done simply to preserve her memory, even if she had known for certain what was true, only because it was too far for her to even think of believing. 

His plans formed little by little as he watched Lantsov’s incompetence unfold, and he decided he wanted justice. He wished for Genya to be his father’s redemption, but she ended up sealing his fate instead. To him, manipulations were never appalling, but taking advantage of someone was. After that, Lantsov was never thought of as his father. He was just another name on paper. 

What was it that he thought of Alina, then? The explanation did not come easy. It was easier to focus on Lantsov’s ignorance, that his bastard son was next to him the entire time, but who would have been able to tell? He was half a head taller than Lantsov with black hair and pale skin and lean, while Lantsov...after his revelations from Genya’s story, he saw as no better than swine. Maybe that was what he was. Alexander Lantsov was a plump, heavyset man with thinning hair and a lecherous grin and a dimwitted mind. 

He was glad now that he took after his mother, no matter how much he despised her methods at times. His father was the true monster, and Baghra never had questionable intentions. Her methods were questionable, but she was taught much more harshly by her father, his grandfather whose playing had fueled the rumors of dealings with the devil and supernatural involvement. 

Baghra had never quite gotten out of the shadow of being Morozov’s daughter, never good enough. The way she learnt frightened her mother as well, convinced there was something wrong with both her husband and eldest daughter, searching fruitlessly for traces of dealings in their slender fingers and skilled wrists. She never quite understood why, but as she grew up, she realized that it wasn’t everyone who could do what she had accomplished easily. It made her a target and an object of afternoon gossip. 

Still, she wasn’t good enough. She was too much for the jealously of many, but not good enough, too sulky for the stage, her left wrist too tight, and Ilya was never easy on her. One could imagine the envy she had for her sister, ordinary but pretty, a ray of sunshine with dark blonde hair after her mother. With Ilya gone on tours, she could have disappeared and her mother didn’t care much, superstitious and far too religious for Baghra’s liking. 

Those stories were the result of drunken evenings, and Aleksandr always wondered how Baghra truly had felt. The stories came, but her voice was emotionless and guarded and her demeanor no less stiff or cold. If she was truly drunk, she would lay her head down and close her eyes. Reading Baghra was more of a challenge than anyone else. 

The violin was returned to its case. Ineffective practice could hurt him more than it would ever help, and he did not have a distraction. Even as he lay down, he found his thoughts wandering back to Alina, and the anger in her eyes hurt more than he would ever admit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How was Aleksandr's sort-of-POV chapter? I love incorporating elements from the originals, soooo please, please tell me what you think in comments! I've started school so writing is a little difficult, but I'm managing. I think I have about 12 chapters left ish but I might write less or more.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG someone is coming back
> 
> Ahh this took so long to plan and write. Enjoy your every-couple-of-days dose of Grisha fanaticism.

Aleksandr Morozov is the definition of a distraction. 

With Zoya out of the picture until the next December, I was to sing all her performances of Norma. Now I was glad that Baghra wasn’t around often enough – she had sickened of both me and Aleksandr, apparently, as she had told me during the one time she was willing to even speak a word to me. 

Part of me wished to feel something less than both anger and disappointment and regret at Aleksandr, and it was definitely not a good thing for Norma. It was hard enough embodying Norma’s tempestuous moods and sharp decline and increase in dynamics, but what felt worse was when I had no idea what it was – something I felt for Aleksandr, or something I felt, something I should have felt, while singing Norma’s arias. 

More infuriating was the fact that Aleksandr looked as if he wanted to pretend everything was like it was at the very beginning, when it wasn’t at all. 

Still, I loved singing enough to stay, and I didn’t really have much of a choice. Now was not the time to be paying fees for breaking contracts, and the prices of rent were only going up. I wondered if people looked what they were on the inside, whether Aleksandr would still get to keep his perfect features. 

Every time I saw him heading my way, I made sure to lock my dressing room door. It always seemed to do the trick, and on the days where he wouldn’t take the hint I could slip out between him and the doorframe without too much trouble. One perk of being small, and watching the slightly dumbfounded expression on his face the first couple of times was well worth it. 

Zoya and Mal moved in together. And out, so it was just me now, in the place where I once shared with Mal, and I guess this was meant to be the end of us. I wouldn’t have clung onto the place if it wasn’t for the convenient location, but how much of that was an excuse for clinging onto the memories? 

Mal’s room was still Mal’s room, and I guess that was proof enough. 

The house was more empty without Genya to fill in the spaces, and I didn’t know about Zoya. Sure, she wasn’t hostile to me either, but neither were we the best of friends, the way me and Genya were. 

Were, that is. I wondered if I was her friend, truly her friend, and not just someone she had been ordered to please. Even so, I wished for Genya’s words and laugh, and her endless supply of gossip. 

Maybe out of all the people, Baghra was my true ally. A knock sounded. I thought of ignoring it but as the person persisted I had no choice but to ask who it was. The voice made me feel hardly good about anything. 

“Me.”

“No one’s home.” I thought of just hiding until he was gone, but in the end, I didn’t think I could hide forever. I was greeted by Aleksandr’s tall figure.

“You’re blocking my light.” Even if there wasn’t any.

“You sound like Baghra.” He said, and I wondered if the hint of smile playing at his lips was real or not, 

“What are you doing here?”

“Are you not going to invite a guest in?”

“You are hardly welcome here. State your business and get out.” I reached to shut the door, but he held it open. Maybe if I kicked him, that would get him out of this place real quick. But again, I was a scrawny singer who hated exercising and probably had a grand total of two pounds of muscle on my entire body. The same could not be said of Aleksandr. 

“I just wanted to bring you these.” He handed me a stack of heavy books. With a jolt, I realized it was the full score of La Traviata, Beethoven’s fourteenth sonata, “Moonlight”, Liszt’s Liebestraumes, and an aria anthology for the spinto and dramatic soprano. “I hope,” he placed his hand under mine, “This is a sufficient apology.”

“I don’t know.” I said softly, hoping to lessen a bit of the sting. “I don’t know what to feel now.”

“You don’t have to.” His voice lost some of the lighter quality, and the next thing I knew was that his lips pressed against my forehead, and his other hand at the curve of my spine. “I missed you,” he whispered. “Now,” he said, his voice playful, the hint of a smirk evident at the corners of his mouth, “can I come in?”

“If you can stop looking like a zombie.” I muttered, but I stepped aside. “I haven’t gotten the time to clean everything yet,” I mumbled, noticing for the first time the tape and pieces strewn across the floors, no doubt left behind by Mal. “I should really mail these to him.”

“Am I forgiven?”

“Is that all you want from me?”

“Yes.”

“I can’t figure out if you’re lying or not.”

“Why would I?”

“I’m still a useful person.” I savored the hurt look across his features. “Maybe that’ll help you stop looking more than a little dead. I don’t feel like causing a scene.” I stepped up to him, and my hand cupped his cheek, “To make it very clear, you are not forgiven.”

What came next I did not anticipate, and I could not anticipate either. I found myself unable to move, pinned in place by Aleksandr’s hands.

“Alina,” his voice was much too smooth for someone uaccustomed to singing, “you forget that I like power.”

“And you,” I spat, “craved it more than Lantsov.”

“Lantsov never did.”

“That still makes my statement true.”

“And why is it that you will never forgive me?”

“Because...” 

I realized too late that I did not know. 

“Because what?”

“Because you’ve never cared.” The words came out more quiet than I expected, but I could feel his hands losing their strength, and it wouldn’t be possible that he wasn’t affected at all.

“Why would you think that?” He asked quietly, his eyes searching as they roamed over my face. “Tell me, is that what you think of me?”

“You have not given me reason to think otherwise.”

“I don’t even know where to begin,” He shook his head. “I would have let Lantsov’s charge be much more serious had I not cared.”

“You used me for your own gain.”

“I did that for everyone’s sake.” 

“You say that to make yourself feel better.”

“Would you rather one person be frightened, or twenty to be violated?” His voice was accusatory. “And to think that was my real father. Believe me, I wish there was another way.”

“I totally believe you.” I said, sarcasm evident. “You’ve done nothing except use me.” 

“As I said before,” his voice was weary. “Do as you wish. Make me your villain.”

“And so I will.” I said, but I was not sure if it was directed as his figure moving out of my door, or as mere reassurance for myself. 

But what remained was the realization that I did not know him at all. 

Genya was good as dead, and I had no one to discuss the mess of my life that I had made. Mal? No. Certainly not. I wondered if he would understand, or simply chide me for getting too involved, or whatever reasoning that I considered absolute bullshit. Reasoning was not for times of emotions.

I opened up my laptop and started typing. 

Dear Diary

I just made a huge mess of shit in my life by realizing I didn’t know any of the people who are around me. I want to yell and swear but I’m concerned that there are kids around so I’m just going to swear here. Blyad. Der’mo. Pizdets. Myudak. Yebat. Gav’no. That should do it. 

Oh and if you can find some of the volcra things from mythology that would be great. I really need to send one after Aleksandr, but he might be pure darkness, so let’s see how that plays out. 

Aleksandr also happens to be insanely good looking and I wonder where those genetics come from. Maybe I should ask for old photos of Baghra.

I felt a small laugh forming. Maybe this was a little far from reality. Maybe I’ll just wake up and find out that the past few months was just a dream, and all of this had not happened.

But what I was feeling was too real to be a dream. 

How many things could I feel? I guess I would find out with Aleksandr. 

It would be easier to forget. 

To lose oneself in music...the results are not always what you’d expect. I opened the score of Beethoven’s moonlight sonata and started marking the fingerings for the third movement even though I probably would never play it to full speed. I sounded the notes in my head, picturing the melody and ascending arpeggios, where they all landed and the force that it would take to play the proper dynamics. 

I played it at the tempo of one sad and lonely snail, noting down any changes I should probably make carefully, and feeling anything but accomplished. The movement was very difficult on my right hand, especially since my hands were never quite big enough. The runs starting with the 10th bar required more concentration than the opening arpeggio’s and the dynamic contrast for the bar introducing a second theme needed a lot of work. 

The fourth and fifth finger trills were difficult enough and I found myself struggling again. I almost sighed in relief as I saw about ten bars of eighth notes before reminding myself that at tempo they were equally monstrous, especially with the octaves following, and the need for clean phrasing and dynamic contrast in the section, as well as emphasis on the descending and ascending lines

When I had finished the initial read-through of the score, I moved on to La Traviata. The score was visibly heavier and contained several pages of introductions and sypnosis. I flipped until Violetta’s first aria, starting with the recit “e strano”. I let my voice ring out, tapping the rhythm with my pen. By the time I got to “in core scolpti” I felt much better, hearing the orchestral accompaniment in my head as I counted the rests. 

“Saria per me sventura, una serio amore?” I asked, but was it just Violetta, or was it me? Would love be misfortune?

I had no answer. “Che risolvi, o turbata anima mia?” I felt my ribs expanding, the air filling my lungs, a feeling of weightlessness coursing through me. Was this what flying felt like? I could not imagine it as anything else but a well sung aria. 

The b-flat at “o, gioia” felt natural and I felt another bit of myself return, a part that I had not known existed. 

Yet, I could not cease to think about Aleksandr. 

The reasonable thing would have been to mistrust him, to have nothing to do with him, especially when I knew what he had done, except that I wonder if I would have done the same in his situation. It all boiled down to emotions, I guess.

I thought music was supposed to help me forget, but it was forcing me to reconsider many, many things. 

The next day, I showed up to rehearsal feeling a lot better, forcing myself to look at Aleksandr and feel nothing, watching his movements and feel nothing, and watch him play the twenty fourth caprice and feel nothing. Easier said than done, but at the end, I felt refreshed instead of tired or weary, and I used it to block out everything else I felt regarding my situation. 

I also wondered what Baghra would say, as a girl I did not know applied my makeup with a shaky hand, so different from Genya’s smooth, fluid movements, skills gleaned from years of painting Yekaterina Lantsova. 

When she left, I felt another pang. Genya would laugh with me at how ghastly I looked under the dimmer lights of my dressing room, and the gossip that we shared, even if it was mostly hers...the tales of the Lantsov’s parties, the gossip surrounding the second son, or even just mocking Zoya. 

I could not be alone with all those memories, so I opted for a walk out of sight, and I saw a young man with blonde hair walking alongside Aleksandr. He reminded me of a fox, or rather, one fox. Something about his reserved smile suggested the too-clever fox from another one of Ana Kuya’s stories, but as I stepped closer, I recognized that voice. 

The soldier from Tsibeya. 

He looked so different, and everything about him exuded a type of easy confidence, something the soldier only had a hint of.

“Sturmhond?” I could not help myself. 

The look of surprise was all that I needed. 

“Forgive me, m’lady.” He bowed. I stifled a laugh. “My name is Nikolai.” 

Sobachka? Sturmhond? Now it all made sense. 

“You are a Lantsov?”

“If it pleases you to say so.” He laughed. “But I prefer sweetheart or handsome.”

I caught a glimpse of Aleksandr’s scowl and I laughed with this Nikolai. He was quite a bit different from Sturmhond, but it wasn’t all bad. It was easy to see where the pieces fit, and how he had constructed Sturmhond. 

“What are you doing here, then?”

“Family,” He held up one finger. “Work,” another one went up, “Funding,” He glanced at Aleksandr, who looked less than amused with a faint furrow between his brows. 

“I see.” For a moment, I wished Genya could be here to see all of this, but I reminded myself it was hardly possible. She had disappeared and I had no way of finding her without a reply from her. 

“It is nice meeting you, Alina.” He smiled. “But I wonder, does Tanya suit you better?”

“Tanya?” I shook my head. “Does Sturmhond fit you better?”

“Hm. I consider myself more handsome than one.” He winked. "Not up for debate, though."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How was it? Tell me in comments
> 
> BTW I am playing Moonlight Sonata mvnt 3 myself, so if a shitty pianist like me can manage it then our petty, snarky, hopelessly talented and pretty protagonist Alinechka should be able to read through it just fine...
> 
> I'm a singer myself too, hence the copious amounts of music in this...yes, an opera singer, yes, quite a heavy voice apparently, and I write what I know, hence Alina's fach and piano skills. I can't write about anything else except maybe violin, and only third person. I suck at violin.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was so hard to write! Turning point x100

It’s the season opening. An entire year has passed since my debut and it all feels like nothing, and that scares me.

Time seems to pass by me far too fast for my liking. Zoya and Mal’s breakup and reconciliation. Baghra’s return. Nikolai’s constant presence at rehearsals. 

It feels wrong to not have Genya even if I don’t know how true the friendship was. I look down at the long grey dress and corset, and then at myself in the mirror. I look delicate and flushed and not at all like myself. 

Stepping out of my dressing room, I watch Zoya in her red gown and hat, twirling and laughing as she clinked glasses with Kaminsky’s Marcello. I wonder what Mal would think. Would he be jealous? I was of Zoya, beautiful and radiant and stunning as Musetta, her figure perfectly proportioned, hair arranged in delicate coils and her sharp features accentuated with dramatic makeup. I looked like a sad mouse next to her in Mimi’s grey dress. 

I had watched La Boheme many, many times. It was one of the first operas I could remember seeing in a theater. With the rest of the cast and audience, we laughed as Benoit the landlord was pushed out of the door when he admitted to adultery. As soon as the rest leave Beznikov’s Rodolfo alone, I step up to knock on the door. Mimi’s candle has burned out and she asks for Rodolfo to light it. The fainting that Mimi experiences I hoped was realistic, and I let Beznikov lead me to a chair and place a glass of wine in m hand. I listen intently to “che gelida manina”, following Rodolfo’s aria with my own. 

“Si, mi chiamano Mimi...” I felt the way my ribs expand, the resonance tingling throughout my body, the ease that I found when calling the notes. The b-flats are lovely, sung mezzoforte. Aleksandr’s conducting swells with the end of the aria. The duet goes well, and the weeks of practice and working together had done plenty of good. 

When act one finishes, we step off the stage to cheers of “bravo” and “brava”. 

The chorus is a little cheerful and hectic as I wander the stage with Beznikov at my side. The star of act two is with no doubt Zoya, with the attention she commands as soon as she steps into set of the cafe in her red dress. There was reason that she was the diva of the Ravkan opera – she embodies Musetta’s flirtatious nature with confidence and maybe a little bit of excessive sashaying. Still, the audience was quite far away, and without the dramatic element, she would be wooden from the audience’s perspective. 

Her “quando men’vo” was absolutely gorgeous. Each high B was defined and round, cutting through each swell in orchestration, and the final diminuendo on the high B was so perfectly executed that I was almost tempted to go out of character to applaud for her. Her acting during the shoe scene was also sufficiently comedic, and I wondered how much of her chemistry with Kaminsky’s Marcello was real. It all looked real to me. 

We all step off the stage as Alcindoro comes back on with the shoe to be presented the bill. 

I hide in the dressing room during intermission, feeling a little empty while not knowing why. Somehow, Aleksandr’s face floated back into my memories, distant and too far removed from reality. Maybe I had hoped once, but clearly, pessimism suited survival better. It wouldn’t have hurted as much. I brushed all thoughts of him away with an angry reprimand. 

Remember. 

But how much of me could claim to be better than he was? I had not known power. 

Either way, he wasn’t as pretty on the inside as he was on the outside. I allowed myself to admire his music, still, because there was no going around the fluidity he played with and the way he could produce every tone and color. 

No one I knew could play like that except for him. I admitted silently. 

The third act opens with recordings of my coughing as Mimi, whose illness has worsened. I allow myself to look distressed as Mimi is after Rodolfo has abandoned her. I sing my lines, balancing squillo with softer pianissimos, praying that they carry over the orchestra well enough. Marcello’s replies are sung as Rodolfo emerges and Mimi hides. The ensuing confrontation causes Mimi to break down in tears and more arias are sung. The final quartet is sung by a quarreling Zoya and Kaminsky with Rodolfo and Mimi. 

To the applause, we simply step off the stage and the two male leads emerge again. The duet brings tears to my eyes for no reason, but I think I know the reason. It was Mal. Nostalgia, and I stifle them to avoid the inevitable impact on my voice should I choose to continue. The mock duel and parodies bring rounds of laughter from the audience while backstage all are tense as we all know the importance of a memorable finale. 

I find myself onstage with Zoya again. Together I am assisted to a bed and the position makes it much more difficult to sing. I straighten myself and do a small breathing exercise as I begin another duet with Beznikov. 

He produces the pink bonnet of act two and another coughing fit occurs, played over with speakers. At the last scene, Rodolfo calls Mimi’s name in anguish as the characters realize that she is dead. The curtain closes and I scramble up when the crew enter to remove the sets. 

Finally, at our curtain calls, the audiences are weeping and cheering and absolutely hysterical. Without a doubt, I know that this has been successful. I take Beznikov’s hand and curtsy, watching in a little bit of awe as roses come flying at my feet. I extend a hand towards Aleksandr who briefly bows before returning to his score. 

It was a good evening, but all good things come to an end. I wipe down my face, removing the highlights and shadows that implied Mimi’s illness, and exchanged her dress for a pair of long pants and loose top. 

I checked my phone. It was ten thirty already. There were a few buses still, and I ran to the bus stop to avoid missing them. Soon, a bus came, and I sat on a seat in the back, slightly conscious about being the only person at the hour. As soon as the doors opened at the Sankt Ilya stop, I rushed off and did not stop until I reached my apartment, only letting a little bit of relief escape me when the doors were securely locked. 

I fell asleep and dreamt of La Rondine, the music, and most of all, singing Madga’s aria “Ch’il bel sogno di Doretta”. 

The knocking that woke me up irritated me to no end. When it was clear the knocker at my door wouldn’t go away, I dragged myself out of bed only to greet Genya with her face hidden away by a long shawl, but I recognized the eyes, or rather, the one remaining eye, the lock of dull auburn hair that curled around her cheek. 

“Help.” She croaked. I helped her in, and with a jolt I realized how bony and dangerously malnourished she was. 

“What happened?” I tried asking, but instead, she started sobbing uncontrollably onto my shoulder as we sat down on the couch. 

“Lantsov.” She choked out. “They did this.” She lifted the shawl for a brief moment and I saw the scars, the wounds and I shrieked. “I wouldn’t have come if I had any other choice.”

“What about Aleksandr?”

“Can’t find him.” She shrugged like it was nothing, but I knew better.

“Why would he?”

“I was instrumental.” She sighed, and then she leaned against me, closing her eyes. 

Quickly, I texted Aleksandr, for the first time in ages. 

What did you do to Genya? 

A swift reply followed. 

-I didn’t do anything.   
-I am not a monster.

-Then why is she at mine and sobbing?

-I said it has nothing to do with me.  
-Alina

-So?

-I’ll help her if you’ll forgive me.

-If I can still swear. 

-Of course. 

-I forgive you. Genya needs a doctor.

-Already scheduled. 2pm tmr, Dr. Anna Feydorovna Popova. The Ravkan Institute of Medicine, Os Alta.

-Am I that predictable?

-Yes. 

“What are you doing?”

“You have a doctors appoint. 2pm tomorrow.” I repeated. “Dr Anna Feydorovna Popova. Ravkan Institute.”

“What?” Genya stared at me with wide eyes. “How did you?” She stared at my phone and I could see the realization forming. “What have you done, then?”

“Nothing except lie.” I doubt I had forgiven him completely.

“Alina.” Genya shook her head. “Sometimes I forgot how you are.” Beneath the shawl, I could see the movement of her lips in to a smile. “You are far too kind.”

“I have my doubts.”

“I don’t know if I would have done the same. If you have done what I have done.” She admitted quietly.

“Don’t say that.” I hugged her. “That hasn’t happened, so all is fine.”

A text popped up. 

-Do you have time to look over Il Trovatore sometime tomorrow?

-When

-4pm

-Where

-Opera house

-Alright

“Who are you talking to?” Genya leaned over.

“No one.”

“Aleksandr?”

I nodded. 

“I know what you’re probably feeling right now.” She sighed. “Just don’t let it in the way of your career.

“I won’t.” I patted her hand. 

We sat in silence for a long time. No doubt that she had a lot on her mind, and it had me thinking too. If Lantsov had that kind of influence, was I in danger? Maybe Genya was a threat, a reminder of what I had managed to accomplish against him and the consequence of it. If I couldn’t protect both of us, at least, I needed Aleksandr’s help in protecting Genya. 

I guess I would have to talk to him about that tomorrow. He might try and extract a price from me, and I knew he probably would. The only problem was that there was no one else I could go to and form an alliance against Lantsov. He might not have my trust, but his hatred of Lantsov would be enough, or I could only hope. 

-Protect Genya. I typed. I won’t make trouble if she’s safe. 

-Alright. 

I felt more relieved than anything else. 

-Thank you, Sanya. Was it right for me to use a familiar form of his name? I didn’t know how old he was and I doubt it would be polite to ask. 

There was just a little glimmer of hope that he’d soften at least a little. 

I had Genya stay over for the night, and neither of us slept very well. Finally sometime around three A.M., we had enough of falling in and out of sleep and she found a few movies for us to watch. 

“What happened to David?” I asked in between Alice and some pirate movie. 

“I don’t want him to see me like this.” She shook her head vigorously. 

“He wouldn’t mind at all. He’s just going to take you to the doctor.” I leaned against her shoulder, both of us curled under the blanket. 

“I guess I don’t want him to see me as less.” A tear slipped down her cheek. “I don’t want to know.”

We sat there and sang along with all the songs, booing at some parts and cheering. At one point we made bets on who would die first and Genya won. 

There was light in the sky as we fell asleep, waking later long past the rising of the sun and with Genya’s hands firmly clasping her shawl. I checked the time. 11am. 

“Do you want to eat?”

“I’m alright.”

“Are you afraid of going outside?” She nodded. “Then do you want to order something?”

“I’m good.” She said quietly. In the end, I did not feel like eating either.

-Can you take me and Genya to the hospital? I felt a little ashamed about asking so much in two days, but I reminded myself that it was all a matter of exchange, and he was free to refuse.

-is she at yours?

-yes

-1:30

-thank you

One thirty rolled around much quicker than I had ever expected. Genya goes in by herself while I sit outside with Aleksandr.

“I think I’ll do this on my own.” She ran a hand through my hair. I nodded. 

Outside in the waiting room, I sat quietly next to Aleksandr, watching his fingers tapping the rhythm to Ernst’s variations on the last rose of summer, humming a few notes under his breath. I leaned against him as I peered at the score, and even if I didn’t recognize many of the markings – the strange boxes, the lines, I could sense that whatever it was, it was more than just difficult. I guess I knew what pizzicato was, and I was reminded of the third liebestraum and the arpeggios, the way they interacted with the melody. 

He turned his face towards mine. “You don’t play the violin, do you?” He asks, an amused twinkle in his eyes. 

“Of course not. I’d be stuck playing a ¾ violin.” 

“Is that what you are concerned about?” 

“What else can I be concerned about?” 

“There’s really nothing you should be concerned about.” He leaned in, “Except for your Traviata.” 

Stupido. I felt my cheeks heating up again, and it would be a lot more obvious with white hair. “What are you doing?” I hissed. His mouth quirked up into another half smile. 

“I never thought this would happen.” He admitted, and briefly brushed a finger against my chin, sending a small jolt down my spine. I had a strong temptation to smack him and kiss him simultaneously. 

What am I doing with my life?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How did you guys like the Alarkling? I'm playing the liebestraume right now so obviously I had to drop that bit in. Sorry that it took so long! I had so much homework and revision to catch up on since school started *cries* I promise I will write more and better. 
> 
> This chapter was so hard to write too *cries* I actually cried because I had no idea how to connect everything and I've been gaining weight since the start of school so it's stressing me out...and to top all that off my life is on a rollercoaster right now and I need my sleep *cries for the millionth time* oh well like comment subscribe and I promise Alarkling crack after this is done *Genya's wicked grin*


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry about the delay - I can't believe the sheer amount of homework I got this week! I've been working on this on and off, and I finished off another 500 words just today. Enjoy the Alarkling...while it lasts...

Both of us considered the office too small for any proper playing, and that was how we ended up lounging on the stage, Aleksandr’s long legs hanging over the edge of the stage. 

I wasn’t allowed that luxury though, unless it was “addio del passato”. The empty accompaniment of Aleksandr’s tapping didn’t help much either. 

“E strano, e strano...” I formed for the fifth time. “In core scolpti qui gli accenti!”

“Better.” He nodded. “Now your rhythm’s on point, try doing a little more crescendo and at the ‘ti’ try higher placement.”

I repeated the line the way he asked.   
“Good. I think you won’t have too much trouble if the first lines are right.” In the dim lights, his face was pale and I could see circles under his eyes. 

“So you have some trust in me now?” I asked. 

“I always did.” He looked as if he wanted to say more. “Now, I think it would help if you practiced the ‘folie, folie’ section, because you have trouble coming in forte sometimes. Placement. Open up before the first phrase. Emphasis on the last note.”

“Folie, folie!” I placed a hand on my ribs. “Delirio vano e questo!” 

“Good.” A half smile reached his lips. “As long as your breath stays open you should be alright. Do you have any trouble with the cadenza?”

“No.” I smiled. “Should we start with sempre libera?”

“Alright.” He counted me in. 

“Sempre libera deggio follegiare...” He motioned for me to continue. 

The feeling of singing right was incredible. 

“Stop.” He said. “Your upward run is not in time.”

“Di volare?” I asked. He nodded. 

“Try it slowly first, at this tempo.” He motioned a slower version of the beats. I sang, nodding to the tempo. “Your intonation is good.”

“Thank you.”

“Now try it a little faster.” In a few minutes, we had it up to the speed, and there wasn’t the sense of being lost or out of control when I sang the phrase. “Do you want to sing the e-flat or b-flat?”

I considered the prospects for a moment. “E-flat.”

“Alright. Start from il mio penser.”

“Il mio penser...” I took a small breath before singing the B-flat, then guiding the way up to the E-flat, feeling the kind of tingle I got when I sang higher notes, hearing the echoes, and I knew I had found it. 

“Brava.” He clapped. “I get it that you want a slightly slower tempo here?”

“Yes.” I felt a smile crossing my face. “Are we finished?”

“Mostly.” He smiled back.

“Then do you want to play the Ernst?” I asked. “Maybe just a few variations?”

He looked surprised. “Alright. I’ll play the first.”

There was a certain grace that he possessed as he stood up and in the way he positioned his bow for the chords, his bow gliding easily, his pianissimos resonant, high notes clear and sweet. It was all over too soon as he placed the violin back into its case gently and bowed. 

“Bravo.” I felt a little tinge of jealousy at how well he commanded his instrument. “How long have you been studying that?”

“A month?” He cocked his head to one side. “I don’t remember.” He looked at his watch. “It’s already six thirty. Do you need dinner?”

“I might.” I admitted, suddenly aware of the growling in my stomach. 

“My place?”

“I don’t know where that is.”

“I’ll take you.” 

“Then yes.” I nodded. 

I don’t know how it happened, but it was a long way to his car, and soon I huddled next to him. What month was it, October? It was chilly in Os Alta either way, but next to Aleksandr I felt much better – and safer. There was a feeling of relief too, and a weight that I did not know was there being lifted. I thought back to that night at the fete, and the part of me that was still afraid was quelled slightly. 

The only imperfection was the fact that I couldn’t quite see his face, but what difference would it make? He’d still wear his usual expressions, unreadable and distant. If it wasn’t for the arm brushing against mine, I wouldn’t have dared to even think of many things. It wouldn’t be wise to get involved, but since when had I been wise? 

There was no need to be wise either. 

I felt a wave of dizziness take over me as I sat down, grey dots clouding the very edges of my vision. Thinking back to the morning, I realized that I had not ate since yesterday. That must have been why. 

A sense of belonging washed over me as I settled into the seat, remember the other journeys that I had taken in this car, and a wave of nostalgia hit me. I wanted the kind of childish exuberance that I once had, but I only felt fatigued, and it was painful to think of, maybe because of how much I missed that mindset. 

Monti’s csardas came on. There was something familiar about the way that the notes rang out, something oddly familiar, the way the notes sounded, the ends of phrases and the tone. 

“That was Baghra’s.” Aleksandr says, “I guess your ears are good enough to recognize her playing.”

I nodded. “Why doesn’t she play anymore?”

“She doesn’t want to.” His eyes turned icy. 

“I guess that’s a good enough reason.” I offered. “At least her skills aren’t lost.”

He nodded. “I hope that she considers me skilled enough to succeed her.” He laughed lightly. “Baghra has high standards.”

“I think we all know.” A little smile spread across my face. I checked my smile in the mirror. It looked well enough. 

“She’s trained you well.” He returns the smile, looking at me briefly before returning his gaze to what was in front of us. His house wasn’t too far away, fairly modest and painted gray. It wasn’t the house that I’d imagine a world class conductor having, but what else could I imagine for him? Simplicity was always his thing. I realized that even if the sight was jarring there was nothing else I’d expect from him. 

“You should rest for a bit.” He led me to a chair. “You don’t look well.”

It was true. I didn’t feel well at all. The brush of his hands against mine felt comforting, and I felt that same sense of security. I had a strong temptation to fall asleep, but I forced my eyelids open and waited. Aleksandr brought out a plate of rye and two bowls of borsch, balanced skillfully atop the rye plate. “I hope you don’t mind. It’s simple but it should be filling.”

I nodded as I took the bowl and blew gently on the soup. 

“Smetana?” He asked. I shook my head. I had a strange aversion to anything that tasted too strong, but that wasn’t the right word. Something that was oily? Maybe that was what put me off. 

“It’s good.” I got out between bites of toasted rye and sips of warm soup. 

He didn’t say much, but I noticed how little he ate. We were at least a foot apart in height, and he ate only a slice more of bread than I did. 

“Are you alright?” I asked. “You’re eating far too little.”

“Of course.” He leaned back, and in the dim light, the hollows in his cheeks were much more prominent, and the way his bones jutted at the corners was alarming. “I am not eating too little.”

“Then why are you eating the same amount as I am?” I pressed. “For the record, I am half your size and either you are implying that I am a pig or that you are severely undereating.”

“I doubt I am.” He chuckled. “I’ve been like this for my whole life.” A glimmer of sadness flicked across his eyes. 

I could imagine the boy that he had once been. That boy, Sanya, whom Aleskandr had clung onto. Despite his cool, unreadable expression, not much too different from his usual appearances, the way his hands tensed and the occasional glimpse of something else that was neither happiness or admiration told me all that I needed. 

I felt a mixture of pity and sadness for him, even if I doubted that it was what he wanted. The way Baghra taught, I doubt that he had truly been able to enjoy his childhood. Keramzin was harsh, and Keramzin was filled with older orphans who had nothing else to do but torment the younger orphans, yet I still had Mal, someone to steal Ana Kuya’s kvass with me, someone to share my fears of lightning, and someone to play make believ with. I wondered if he had anything even close to Mal, but even if he did I doubt Baghra would have permitted the distraction. 

Maybe Baghra was a good teacher, an excellent violinist, world class without a doubt, but she was never a good parent. 

“Alina?” Aleksandr’s voice snapped me back to reality. 

“Sanya.”

“Alinechka, then.” He tidied away the dishes, then disappeared in the kitchen. Five minutes, ten minutes...

Waking up when there was light, I realized that I had spent the entire night in someone else’s house when I woke up atop a bed that wasn’t mine. I felt a sense of relief when I found everything that I had last night still with me. I tiptoed down the stairs and found Aleksandr sprawled across his couch, his legs and arms hanging off the sides. 

“You really didn’t have to do that, you know.” I said aloud. 

He responded with soft breathing. In his sleep, he looked almost younger than I did, without wearing his usual expression that aged him by far too much. How old could he be? I was guessing around Genya’s age, probably older, but seeing Baghra I felt it was sensible to believe that he was older than that. 

Do people always look young when they sleep? When they cannot wear any mask, and when they cannot hide from who they truly are? 

More or less, I would think. His eyes open and he looks much less like a boy. When he sees me, a coy half smile crosses his face. 

I feel a blush creeping up my cheeks as he straightened himself. 

“Morning.” He ran a hand through his hair. “You should check your phone.”

“What?”

“It rang quite a bit last night.” He said matter-of-factly. “You didn’t wake up though. I figured that you probably needed the sleep.”

“Thank you.” I said quietly. 

“Are you hungry?”

“A little.” I admitted.

“I’m making blini.” He smiled. “Smetana and herring?”

“Alright.” I said. I didn’t particularly like herring, but I suppose it wasn’t nice to criticize the host. 

I had about a hundred frantic messages from Genya.

The last few sounded almost as if she were going crazy. 

Lina Lina Lina Lina Lina Lina Lina Lina Lina

Answer me Answer ME ANSWER ME ANSWER ME

WHAT ARE U DOING SAINTS ARE YOU OKAY

I CALLED THE POLICE BUT THEY REFUSE INVESTIGATION BEFORE 24 HOURS  
HELP MY BEST FRIEND IS LOST

I shook my head. 

Genya, I’m fine. I typed. I accidentally fell asleep on Aleksandr’s couch and he didn’t want to wake me up because I was really tired. 

A text came in. Thank the saints, Alina. You had me scared.

I’m sorry :( I typed. Forgive me Genya.

Alright. Anything for you. 

Some time later Aleksandr came in with two plates stacked high with buckwheat pancakes, the smell almost nolstagic. It was what everyone around Keramzin ate, wasn’t it? Simple hearty cakes, dished up with a dollop of cream and whatever meat we still had left on the bad days. 

This would’ve been one of the good days, maybe not as so for me – I could never quite get used to the taste of herring. I never knew why either. 

I thought back to a conversation I once had with Mal. 

We had been eavesdropping on Ana Kuya and the cook at Keramzin, hidden away in a pantry as they discussed their lives and the orphans. Ana Kuya had remarked that I was growing neither horizontally or vertically.

“No child should be so skinny.” She shook her head. “Pale and small and sour like a turned glass of milk.”

“She never finishes her supper.” The cook had remarked. 

Ana Kuya’s words had stung a little. Beside me, Mal was giggling. 

“Oh, shut up.” I muttered. “You’ll get us caught.”

“Why won’t you eat?”

“Her food is mud.”

“Really? Tastes fine to me.”

“You’ll eat anything.” I had snapped. 

“She’s an ugly little thing.” Ana Kuya pinched the space between her brows. 

I frowned a little. 

“I don’t think you’re ugly.” Mal had reassured me. I had smiled.

“What are you smiling at?” Aleksandr’s voice drifted past the vivid picture that I had painted in my head of the kitchen in Keramzin, pulling me back to reality.

“Sorry, what?” I registered his question, the faint crinkle at the corner of his eyes. “Keramzin.” I got out. “Ana Kuya?”

“Who was she?”

“Like Baghra but housekeeping inclined.” Both of us laughed.

“I wonder what that would look like.” He mused. “It’s funny how little people understand themselves.”

I wonder what that meant. “I would tell Baghra that but I don’t feel like getting the cane.”

“Did she use it on you?” He inquired. 

“Not really.”

“I might have to talk to her about relaxing a bit.” He smiled apologetically. “She’s, ah well, a bit of a perfectionist.”

“I think we can all tell.” I returned his smile. “But she’s good at what she does.” A small shadow passes over his face. “Why does it almost look like you can’t stand her?”

“I think she shouldn’t work with children.” He replies easily. 

“Why is that? Besides her cane, of course.”

“She doesn’t know when to stop.” His face wears another unreadable mask, and the stiffness tells me all that I need to know.

“What did she do to you?”

“I was never a child.” He shrugs, almost as if it were nothing. “There was no such thing as rest.”

“Why did she do that?”

“She wanted me to succeed.” The sad smile that crosses his face for a brief second is enough. I might not know the pain, but I could know the pressure. “I don’t know if I could do that on her terms. I’d like to like on my own terms.”

“That is something I’d agree with.” 

“Are you going to eat?” He inquired. 

“Oh.” I smiled in embarrassment. “Don’t distract me.” I took a few smaller bites before deciding that it was too good to miss out on, and the rest of the stack ended up being stuffed, and I didn’t bother hiding from him the way I managed to stuff two into my mouth. 

“I’m an opera singer.” I wiped my mouth with nonchalance, enjoying the slight surprise that appeared on his face. 

“I should have known.” He shook his head and smiled. 

“Of course.” I gave him a proud smile. “At least I’m not sour like Ana Kuya says.”

He chuckles. “Sour. That’s new.”

“Nah. Or ugly.”

“You’re not ugly.” He reached across the table to brush a lock of hair from my cheek. “Alina, you are lovely.”

One reason I cursed paleness was that any blush was obvious, and from his expression, he probably noticed. I wondered how much he knew. In the moment, I found myself placing a hand atop his. 

Something had definitely changed, and I didn’t know what. What I knew was how close we were despite the table between us. 

So much for closeness, I guess, when his hand returns to its place by his fork and mine are grasping empty air. 

Neither of us knew what to say. The ride back was spent in silence drowned out by the anguished voices of a violin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me what you think! And I honestly want them to just hop in bed or something right now but I can't because I don't have a clue on how to write that kind of content...and I'd like to keep this PG-13 thank you very much. Even a kiss seems like too much...ahh the masochism tango...I'm torturing myself by 40k words and no kiss.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is so crazy

I was expecting someone else, but David ends up approaching me in his nervous, shuffling manner. He doesn’t look much different, but there’s a clear look of concern in his eyes. 

“Do you know where Genya is?” He asked quietly, fidgeting with a gadget in his hand.

“I do know.” I said. “She’s not feeling well.”

“I heard.” He had placed it back into his pocket. 

“What did you hear?”

“Lantsov took revenge on her.”

“That’s pretty much it.” I sighed. “Point is, she’s scared, and she’s not feeling well. I don’t think it would be a good idea to make her feel more self conscious at the moment.”

“Can you give her this?” He held out a small gadget. 

“Yes.”

As I slipped it in my pocket, a familiar blond head strolled past. 

“Nikolai?” I groaned. “What are you up to this time? We don’t need another crashing ship on the set.”

“Of course not.” He winked. 

“Then what?”

“Home is boring.” His eyes dulled over. “My mother does nothing but complain that I didn’t work hard enough. I don’t think any hard work can erase the truth.”

“I doubt it.”

“And he was never my father.” His hazel eyes seem a little duller. “I’ll trust you. In fact, it’s probably a point in my advantage right now with the drama.” 

Rehearsals were almost over and I wasn’t needed either. I left a quick note in Aleksandr’s office before I took a bus home, where no doubt Genya would be waiting for me. I had given her a key and she was too exhausted to refuse. Running up the flights of stairs, I felt my pocket and a sense of relief coursed through me as I found the gadget where I had left it when David handed it to me. 

I twisted the lock open and found no one. I tiptoed into my room, where I had placed Genya, and she was lying on bed, nearly motionless except for the occasional tap at her screen.

“Zhenka!” I tapped her on the shoulder.

“You are oddly cheerful.” She switched her phone off. 

“I have something for you.” I held out the gadget, a few specks of lint from my pocket sticking onto the exterior. 

“Who gave you that?” She looked almost sad. 

“David.” I answered easily. 

“I-I-” She buried her face. 

“What’s wrong?” I sat next to her on the bed. 

“I don’t deserve him.” She said quietly, sniffling between the words.

“You deserve him and more. You deserve all the good things in your life and none of the bad.” I patted her hands.

“I wish you were right.” She shrugged. “But you don’t say that to this,” she pointed at her face. “It’s horrendous. The creams are not helping.”

“It’ll get better.” I say. 

“Ha. The day this gets better is the day the old cow stops aging.” She snorted, wrapping her shawl tightly. “I guess I should thank him, and that’s the proper thing to do.”

“Do it.” I say.

“I’m not a proper person.” She shrugs again. “And I don’t want him to see me like this.”

“He knows.” I say. “And the only thing he’s concerned about is that you get this. What is it anyways?”

“It’s a massage device and cleaning device for my face.” The look on her face, even through the shawl, almost broke me. “I was joking once about the fact that cleaning my face and massaging it every day took too much time.” She leaned back, staring wistfully out the window, onto the street. “He asked me what I could do about it. I joked again and said maybe if he invented some gadget and started selling it we’d be rich and I’d save time. I never thought he took it so seriously.”

“He loves you more than you’d ever think. And he wouldn’t care what your face looked like as long as you are yourself.” 

“Darling, you may have a point.” She hugged me. “He is pretty blind.” 

What I wanted to say was that if Aleksandr was even attracted to me a little, then he was probably blind too. But that wasn’t what I said. “He knows you’re beautiful but he doesn’t really mind. I’m very sure he loves you as a person.”

“If he can deal with me and the ice cream bill,” Genya turned her head both ways, “He can probably deal with the cuts. Right?” The question seemed to cause her to deflate a little. “Hey, I think the inflammation is better.”

“You shouldn’t be covering up so much either.” I said, and lifted the shawl. She let me. “You should probably get some air.”

“You might be right for once.” She winked. “Let’s do this.”

“Do what?”

“Where’s David?”

“I don’t even know. You can come with me tomorrow to rehearsal if you’d like.” Another shadow crossed her face. 

“No Lantsov dogs?” She raised a well maintained eyebrow. If some of her vanity was returning, maybe all would be good.

“I hope not.” I cringed at the thought of the ship on set crashing down again. 

“Your face!” She laughed. “Tell me, what did he do?”

“He built a flying ship for the set. Told us he studied some woodwork or something else. It crashed.” I shuddered again.

“Oh don’t worry,” Genya smiled happily. “At least you’re not cleaning the stage after that.”

“I feel sorry for Alexei.” I confessed. “He and the rest of the crew had to do some damage control. Some is an understatement.”

“What are we gonna do now?” She asked. “Tell me, what do you think of David?”

“I honestly would never have imagined you loving him, but as long as you love each other I offer my support.” I grinned.

“Now tell me, what do you think of Aleksandr?” She smirked. 

“What?” I felt my cheeks going bright red.

”I think I know everything I need to, darling.”

“It’s not like that!” I yelled.

“It is!”

“Is not!”

“Is!”

“Not!” I clamped her mouth shut. “I win.”

“Oh fine.” She sulked. “I’ll just text him saying you have a teensy weensy crush on him and you want to kiss him.”

“Genya!” I yelled. 

“Alright. I’ll just get Zoya to ask you out.”

“Why Zoya?”

“Because she’s also black haired.” Genya leaned back. “You’re into that, right?”

“I don’t think I’m into girls.”

“Oh. No big deal.” She held up her phone. “You see, I can put a picture and it changes the gender.”

“What the hell do you do? How much free time do you have?”

“More than I need.” She sighed. “But not enough.”

“Dinner?”

“I don’t usually refuse good food.” 

“Are you complaining about my cooking?”

“I’m complaining that you don’t cook. Here, I’ll help.” We leapt up from the bed and ran into the kitchen, giggling like two children and surveyed the fridge. 

“You still have some smoked salmon, cabbage, and lettuce.” She spun her head around. “Oh! And some rye.” 

“Yup.”

“Milk, flour, eggs...” She threw her hands up in exasperation. “Why don’t you have butter?”

“I don’t really like it.”

She looked as if I had just committed some horrible crime. “I can’t cook without butter!” She wailed comedically. “Oh wait, you have olive oil, right?” I nodded. “I could work with that.”

Between the two of us, we ended up with a quick dinner of greens with olive oil, smoked salmon and toasted rye. Thank god there was enough of it for both of us to stuff ourselves, and even if we knew we probably ate a few kilograms too many of food, we couldn’t care less.

“Best meal ever.” She mumbled through a mouth of rye. “It’s when you’re hungry that stuff tastes good.”

“I’m inclined to agree.” I didn’t eat quite as much, but rehearsal had left my appetite growling at the thought of any food. Even butter. 

I studied a score while Genya brewed some tea as repayment for mooching off me. To be honest, I never really minded – I liked having her around more than I would ever admit, because that would be an endless stream of Genya’s proclamations that she was the best. I had to agree even if I didn’t want to.

When I finally lifted my head from the copy of Traviata, she shook her head. “What is wrong with you? You look at that,” She pointed at the score, “More than you do at Aleksandr.”

“Please, stop.” I felt another wave of heat rising up.

“Oh, why would I?” She held out her hand and gazed at the ring atop it. “I’m not single, and you shouldn’t be. He cares about you, more than you think.”

“How would you know that?”

“He tells some things, and I guess others.” Genya shrugs indifferently. “I know him well enough.”

“Then why didn’t you go to him for help?” Something felt wrong.

“He can’t.”

Didn’t she say she couldn’t find him? Suspicion crept into my mind. 

“It’s not like that.” She tried to explain. “I couldn’t find him in time and then can he really help me like you can? I have enough scandal on my name as it is.”

“Don’t worry about it.” I said. “We should sleep. Big day coming up.”

“Yes, a big day.” She fidgeted. 

I slept all the way to seven, and then we headed together towards the opera house, a slice of rye with a bottle of water clutched in our hands. 

Instinct told me that I should be able to find David, and he was where he usually was – in the tech room, fidgeting with something of his own, and he hardly noticed. I also failed to notice Genya’s disappearance, and before he could register who it was, I ran outside to be met with a shaking Genya. Her shawl had returned, and her face was covered again. 

“What are you doing?” I hissed. “I thought you wanted to see him.”

“I don’t want to.” She was shaking. “I don’t want to.” She kept on repeating.

“He’s not going to mind your face.” I reassured her. “Think on it. Has he ever been struck because you are beautiful?”

“No.”

“Then why would he care now?”

“You’re right.” She took a few deep breaths. 

I pushed her in, and then I stepped out. Yet, in the end, I could not resist peeking. 

Genya crying. David hugging her. A kiss. 

I think they knew but they didn’t care much for what I saw either way. I guess this was love, even if I didn’t know how to define it. 

In the end, I left them alone to start my warmups in a spare practice room, the keys ratty, the strings barely in tune. 

“A-e-i-o-u-o-i-e-a” I sang ascending arpeggios first slowly, and then quickly, and then with an “a” vowel, I sang scales and chromatic runs. After that I checked my phone. It was about eight, still a little too early. 

This rehearsal was for Il Trovatore, and we were rehearsing Act I. A bass I did not recognize sang the role of Ferrando with a deep and imposing voice, his aria heavy, but his voice nimble enough for all the ornaments, none of which he missed. The crescendo in his voice was only matched by the increasing frenzy with which the chorus sang. 

The accompanist played the opening of my recit and I stepped up. Nadia sings Inez’s questions, and I answer them, acutely aware of the resonance that I produced and the way the vowels formed.

Aleksandr nods in approval even as he conducts. 

When it is my turn to enter in “tacea la notte,” he nods a little. I sing the first octave leap perfectly, and even the low notes are full and resonant, bright in a way that did not suggest constriction. 

We had gone over the ritardando at the ascending passages, and now I sang them the way I intended them, and the held B-flat. Before I knew it, the first section was over, and instead of exhaustion I felt energized. I nodded along to the beat, rolling the r in “versi di prece”, and as I anticipated the D-flat, I took in more air, and with a leap, I took the D-flat in forte and allowed it to fade to mezzo-piano, singing the fioratura “inside” as Baghra had taught, relaxing the tongue, throat, and jaw. 

“Stop.” Aleksandr suddenly held out a hand. “Starkova, Zhabina. The singing is good, but you have forgotten the acting. Beginning with versi di prece.”

I did as I was instructed in a previous rehearsal, to hold Nadia’s hand and to walk towards the audience as I reached the highest point, before turning around to Nadia as she pleaded for me to forget the troubadour. 

The rest of the morning went rather well without much interruption. I dropped by the tech room where they were still murmuring to one another in low voices, and I decided to leave without Genya. It would be better if she could spend some more time with David. After exiting the building, I dropped her a quick text telling her that I was going home. 

I probably stayed there for a little long, and I felt a light tap on my shoulder. Aleksandr’s other hand still clutched a stack of scores and several worn out pencils. 

“Well done.” He offered another half smile. 

“Thank you.”

“Are you going to lunch now?” He inquired.

“Probably, if I can get the bus.”

“There’s a better solution.”

“What?”

“I could take you.” He offered. “We can go together. I think I still owe you.”

“Do you?”

“I think so.” He shrugged. “Yes or no?”

“Yes. What else can I say?” I offered a grin that was probably stupid, but I would have been lying if I wasn’t happy at the prospect of spending time with him. “What do you have in mind?”

“What are you thinking?”

“There was a place Genya took me last time. A bistro?”

“I see.” 

“Do you know it?”

“I think I do. Would you like to give directions?”

“I’m shit at directions.”

“Well, I guess we’re out of luck.” He laughed.

“I’ll text Genya.” It took an agonizing ten mintues for her to respond, and as soon as she did, I handed it over to Aleksandr. Another popped up that made me almost want to crawl into the ground. 

Who’s the lucky date?

I hid my face in my hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp I'm sorry people...
> 
> I tried. 
> 
> I laughed so hard though because Genya is Genya and Alina is Alina.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Genya POV again! Genya strikes again :)

I watch them with a little less guilt this time. 

How many times do I have to lie to Alina? Still, I hear Aleksandr’s words. I want to be back in Alina’s life. He wants her to return to him. Having me there, to entice her, made his job a lot easier. It was to ease her out of anything she still felt. And that was unnecessary. The way she looked at him...I doubt really she could have kept up her anger for much longer. 

Isn’t that the blessing of a beautiful person? I watch Aleksandr’s hand brush against her cheek, tucking a strand of white hair behind an ear. Even from here, I can see how red her face is. 

She still hasn’t learned to hide. 

I guess after this I am free, free to have my life, but the itching of the scars remind me that some things will never truly go away. 

Even if he is in jail, Lantsov still has the connections and power to achieve his revenge. I could almost sense what he was thinking. If he couldn’t have what he saw in me – my face, my beauty – no one else would either. 

That day I crawled to Alina’s house, I was worried that the medicine that Aleksandr had given me would give me away. The half hour of hushed scheming would have been too strenuous if not for it. She hardly noticed anything. 

What makes a girl so kind, I wonder? I doubt her orphanage in Keramzin was kind, and nothing had been so kind to her. Not Mal, not Zoya. Maybe not even Aleksandr. Was I her friend, still? I wanted to be her friend, if only I could pretend the betrayals didn’t exist. 

Unfortunately, I was not that person. Could she read the guilt in my face, the shame? All seemed to be going well, and I left quietly through the back to make my way back. Everything was sold when I had left. The car, the house, even the furniture – I didn’t want any of the reminders of a life of someone who had no will to be left, so I had sold it all, including the jewels that Lantsov had given me. 

The name still left a bitter taste in my mouth.

Soon, he would know what true pain was. Maybe I was no scientist or scholar, but in the world of makeup, we were cautioned against products that contained various things that would cause horrible effects once they built up in the body, and it was important that we understood the fundamentals of these chemicals. At the time it seemed so insignificant, but when Yekaterina’s coldness became too much, the knowledge became a place of refuge. 

Over the years I wondered how much he had taken in. Certainly, it wasn’t showing, but it would soon. The dosage each time was more than enough at the number of times he had committed the same crime. I had accomplices too – all of us who had even remotely suffered wanted blood exacted for our suffering. It was the reason Aleksandr could organize the trial – there were too many of us for his connections to handle. 

Even the thought brought a smile to my face. In the glass panel of the bus, I didn’t look half bad, with a well shaded face and well proportioned features. At least, I thought, he left my hair intact. 

Trudging up the path to Alina’s house still feels wrong somehow. I should tell the poor girl, but how? At this point, would she really appreciate it? I guess, we all saw how she looked at him and how he looked at her. Do I need to? Then, who would kill me next? Wouldn’t that be Aleksandr, then? 

The room was still slightly messy and I figured out that I should probably tidy it a bit. It only made sense that Alina’s hospitality be repaid generously in my mind – perhaps some of Yekaterina’s lessons still stuck with me, and I grimaced as I realized something else. She had also taught me to never regret, to lay blame so that she could sleep well at night, and also to deceive herself into thinking that she must have been a saint. 

I cackled loudly enough with the other girls who also cursed her name. The name I personally preferred – old cow – was a combination of some other names that I would be better off to forget. This one stuck for far too long. 

What did she call me behind my back, I wonder? That didn’t matter much now, did it? The more important thing was perhaps Alina’s obvious fancy for Aleksandr, and the smile that was more or less genuine that he could even muster. Thinking of them, I took out the little device David had given me. We didn’t know what to name it, so it had always been “the” device, and with no other to claim the reference, it had stuck. 

The only problem was that it wouldn’t work on broken skin. Still, I run it over my hands, relishing the kind of touch. 

David really does outdo himself. I think back to someone I had once been, a girl trapped in a woman’s body. He was really the only person who did not take me for face value, even if he had no clue about life himself. I don’t even know if anything made sense anymore, only that I fell for him before I even knew what love was. How could I have known what love was? I had not seen my parents since I was five – they never wanted me and being a pretty child never mattered. So as long as I was beautiful Yekaterina would despise me, and once I was attractive she would never stop hating me. I would not call what was between me and Aleksandr any sort of love, but more like mutual care. We were useful for each other, but over time use turned into genuine friendship. In the end, I guess you could fall in love without knowing what love ever was. 

I touched my cheek. It burnt, and looking at myself in the window, I could see the red of cheeks, as red as my hair. 

It’s a long time before the lock turns and Alina stumbles in, tired but glowing, a score clutched tight and a pencil in the other hand. In the meantime, I had fixed a small meal for the two of us – no dairy, less salt as per Baghra’s instructions – and the elation in her eyes was touching. I guess, it was a reminder that she really appreciated me, which I wouldn’t have found so possible and real. 

Being around some people changed you. 

“How was rehearsal? Anything interesting?”

“Aside of Beznikov and Marie? No.”

“Who’s Marie?”

“A French soprano.” 

“Wait, as in, Auclair?”

“Yes, Genya, yes.”

“They’re together?” I pressed. “I thought that was just a rumor. Pub-li-ci-ty.”

“Well apparently not.” She laughed. “Although I wish it was. They were disgusting.”

“Ooh.” I leaned forward. “What kind of PDA?”

“The worst kind.” She deadpanned. “They literally can’t stand being away from each other.”

“Well to be fair,” I felt a smirk crossing my face. “You and Aleksandr...”

“Shut up!” Her face turned bright red. “There’s nothing between us, okay?”

“Will not!” I stuck my tongue out at her.

“That’s not graceful.”

“I am not graceful. I am Genya.” I smiled. “And I dictate that you must finish your dinner.”

“Genya...” Alina gave me a death stare before quietly resigning herself to the soup. “It’s really good!” She managed to get out between bites.

“Yes, child,” I finish my bowl and deposit it into the sink. “Now you need to sleep.” She nods. 

“Are you coming to the next Trovatore?” She asks, her eyes hopeful. “David will be there.”

“I’ll go.” I say, but I don’t know at all. Some things are better left undisturbed, like conspiracies and memories. She doesn’t seem to notice though, still fully absorbed in her soup. 

I still wonder about how sheltered she really is. I suppose it wasn’t healthy for the prima donna to be so oddly innocent – hence the reason that Zoya didn’t become Aleksandr’s weapon against Lantsov. Was it fair to her that the people around her used her? 

Perhaps that was why I sought Aleksandr out the next morning, and this time I had only one question. 

“What is she to you?”

“What is she to you?” He returns the question without looking up from another score. “I suppose if you are asking this question, you know the answer.”

“Answer my question.” I felt almost as if I was pleading. Pleading for the peace of mind the answer might offer.

“You can guess.”

“Do you care about her at all?”

“What does it look like?” This time, he looks up, and it is clear from the look of something strange, almost despair, that he seems to carry. “I’d wish it wasn’t.”

“I think sometimes we all do.” I shrugged. “If only she were easier to hate. Do you feel guilt?”

“How would I know?” The unmistakable weariness that settles over him is almost painful because in a way, that is what I feel.

“I see that you are weary, and I shall leave you to think over some other things.” Was it just natural to say, or was it an attempt to ease Alina’s pain if she ever finds out? Either way, I don’t think either of us would know what to think or feel now. One as a lover, the other as a friend. 

Neither of us can count the betrayals on our hands. Neither of us would even try. 

One would think that maybe talking about something would make it easier, but it brought everything back worse than it already was. 

She wasn’t home when I reached the door, but her phone was on the desk. I flipped it open and a picture of me lit up. 

Tears sprang in my eyes without warning as I recalled many things – the fight with Mal, so many days alone with each other, dependence, the trial, too many things that I should have been thankful for, too many things that she should have shared with better people, better people than either me or Aleksandr. 

“Genya?” Alina’s voice sounds as the door clicks shut. “Genya!” She yells. “What happened?”

I shake my head and bury my face in her shoulder. 

She doesn’t say anything and simply wraps her arms around my back, making a gentle patting motion. 

“I don’t deserve a lot of things.” I say. “You, David, and a lot of things.” 

“What happened?”

“Not much.”

“Then why are you crying?” 

“I don’t deserve your thought.” It takes all my strength to not collapse onto the floor. “Do you know what I have done?” There’s something like fear in her eyes, but it didn’t matter. It had to come out. “If you don’t, I implore you to find out and forget me.”

“Genya, I do.” She said quietly. “Baghra told me.”

“Baghra?” 

Now, that was a shock. “Are you sure? Like, no amnesia involved?”

“Yes. She guessed. I figured out she was right, but does it matter?” She hugged me. “I don’t think we can judge someone by things that they didn’t have a choice in. And I think your moods right now are PMS...” She trailed off.

“What?”

“I did some counting for you.” An embarrassed smile crosses her face. “I figured out that was the least I could do.”

“I don’t even count myself.” I admitted. 

“I have chocolates.” She grinned. “Do you want to watch a recording of...hmm, which opera?”

“Or a movie?” 

“Movies? Yes!” She lit up. “I almost forgot.”

“Let’s find something stupid.”

“I won’t say no to that. I would never say no to that. In the meantime, let’s try some of this.” She held out the box of chocolates.

“What flavor are they?”

“I don’t even know.”

“Alina!”

“They were a gift.”

“Can I guess who they were from?” I smirked.

“No.”

“It’s Aleksandr.” I sang. 

By the way she turned beet red, I knew I had guessed right.

“Dammit, you really are into him.”

“Am not!” She mumbled. 

“Who said so?” I pinched her cheek. “You really need to take a look in the mirror.” She hid her face again.

“You’re not gonna watch the movie like that.”

“I can listen.” 

“I like subtitles.”

“Screw you. Stop torturing me.”

“You really need to fess up.”

“Maybe you should try doing the same.”

“What? I already admitted it.” 

“Fine. You win again.”

“I’m fabulous.”

“Horrible.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Started as a serious fic. Ends as crack. I don't know what to think.
> 
> I was very busy in the past month because of exams. I hope no one minds that publishing weekly turned into a month long wait, but I'll try and get more chapters out before I get shipped back to school...
> 
> What do y'all think?


	20. Chapter 20 - Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short little epilogue...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me stupid had mocks and forgot all about my writing career. Was busy revising and not dying. 
> 
> I have a debate comp tomorrow...and I just finished two hours of dance practice. I'm exhausted and feel free to comment if my writing is off.
> 
> Will be coming out with another story in a few days time :) stay tuned and I love you guys! Thanks for all the patience and I hope this next story will be even better. 
> 
> Spoiler alert: if I did opera, why not ballet too? Or some crazy revolution stuff? I might go a little crazy with the Russian terminology...

How long have I thought about all this?

Still, what compelled me to travel places I have never been to?

The invitation was translated from Shu, but the occasional bout of odd grammar conveyed what was needed well enough with much more respect than one would ever expect to come out of translation.

“Is this what you want?” He asked.

“I want us to be equals.”

“And this would be your way?”

“I’d think so.”

“We are equals.”

“I disagree.”

“When do you leave?”

“They asked for two roles to open in three months. I’ll be leaving in two weeks.”

He nods. “And when will you return?”

“In four.”

“A toast.” He holds up a mug to my bottle of water. “A toast to your career.”

“A toast to our careers.”

“Best of luck.” He says.

“Before I leave,” I took a deep breath.

On his cheek, I left a very faint smudge of red lip balm before I ran out of the office into the Ravkan night, leaving the domes behind me and giggling like a madwoman.

I wonder how he’d react to that because I had never bothered to look.

Two weeks of packing later, I was surprised somewhat to see him at the airport with Genya and David waiting to say goodbye.

“It’s only three and a half months,” I patted Genya’s back. “It’s not much time.”

“What am I gonna do without you?” Genya wailed comically. Me and David shook our heads simultaneously.

“You’ve got plenty else to do.” I say. “I promise I won’t wreck my skin while I’m out.”

“You better not.”

“Goodbye, I guess it is?” I gestured at my luggage. “I’m not going to be the one who is late.”

“We’ll be waiting for you!” Genya called out as I entered the doors.

Something in my pocket beeped.

_I’ll be waiting for you. _Aleksandr’s text read.

His silhouette stood behind the glass.

_I’ll be waiting too. _I returned.

Somehow, I know it was to be true.


End file.
